


A Sea of Glass

by Meisiluosi



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Angst, Bookshop, Doctor & Patient - Freeform, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Lung Cancer, M/M, Marwood the bookworm, Marwood the writer, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Post-Canon, Suicide, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Years Later, hot beverages as a universal problem fixer, it's just unresolved tensions all over the place, problems not even hot beverages can fix, tea & coffee, there be OCs (one has to assume the boys had a life)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:31:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 21,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meisiluosi/pseuds/Meisiluosi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Given enough time, things are bound to go wrong, one way or the other.<br/>It's been a long time - and Marwood is leaving again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To a delightful weekend in the country

**Author's Note:**

> A silent snow fell last night,  
> so I woke to a bright new world.  
>  _Work the oars, work the oars!_  
>  A sea of glass surrounds me;  
> further on the jade mountains rise.  
>  _Chigukch'ong, chigukch'ong, ŏsawa!_  
>  Fairyland perhaps? Nirvana?  
> Surely not a world of men. 
> 
> \- Yun Sondo: _The Fisherman's Calendar_

It had been a long ride to Cumbria and Withnail had spent most of it ranting his head off. He and Marwood hadn't seen each other since September, so there was over three months' worth of everything to complain about.   
The cottage at Crow Crag was as damp, cold and unwelcoming as every other December, but Marwood had already lit the fire and Withnail had opened the unfinished bottle of his Christmas whiskey. They expected to be reasonably warm soon enough. For the moment, though, the house hadn't quite warmed up yet - so they were still both wrapped in their coats and scarves, noses numb and teeth chattering.  
“So... How does that new book of yours sell?” Withnail asked while pouring himself a large shot.   
Marwood smiled and replied: “As you might expect. Not very well. Hardly at all, to be perfectly honest.”  
“No wonder nobody wants to read your shit,” Withnail said with a sneer and gulped down the whiskey. “Your obsession with synaesthesia and incomprehensible abstract metaphors is obscene.”  
“So is your obsession with scotch,” Marwood retorted and gestured for the bottle. “Hand that over, thank you very much.” But he fell into a coughing fit before he even took a swig.  
“Don't spit your germs into my booze, if you please," Withnail growled and snatched the bottle out of Marwood’s hand.  
“Anyway... If readers were my primary concern,” Marwood continued when he stopped coughing, “I’d be writing novels about castration anxiety and midlife crisis.”  
"You mean you aren’t?” Withnail smirked. “Come on… That rather grotesque passage about jet lag, pomegranates, clarinet-flavoured bourbon and screaming city lights was embarrassingly transparent.” Marwood gestured for the bottle back. Withnail nodded towards the cupboard and said: “Be civilized and fetch a glass, for chrissakes.”  
“I got one but you confiscated it!” Marwood said - but nevertheless, he stood up and went to the cupboard to get a glass. “You do realize that whenever you attempt to analyze my stories you wind up telling me more about yourself than you’ve intended to...” He returned to his armchair, grabbed the bottle and filled both his and Withnail’s glasses.  
Withnail sighed and stretched like a cat, but immediately felt the pervasive damp cold still lingering in the room - and collapsed back into a tangled knot of legs, arms, corduroy, wool, and cigarette smoke. “Would you believe it...We've survived another decade. And quite a revolting one, no less."  
Marwood shook his head. "Not yet. There are still a few hours of 1989 left."  
Withnail scoffed. "Let's just pretend it's midnight already..." He grinned and offered a toast: "To a delightful weekend in the country.”  
"It's Monday tomorrow, you silly tool," Marwood replied. But he, too, raised his glass. “Chin chin. To Adrienne de la Touche!”  
They downed the whiskey and Marwood immediately poured both himself and Withnail another. “How long has it been?”  
“Can’t remember, can’t be bothered to care. It’s a miracle I remember the fucking date,” Withnail murmured into his scotch before taking a small gulp. There was a hint of sadness in his voice that anyone but Marwood would have missed.  
“Well, I suppose that’s why he made it the New Year’s Eve.”

It had in fact been 12 years since Montague H. Withnail had left for Crow Crag to spend his last Christmas and not to return. He was discovered on 3rd January by Mr Parkin - whom he’d asked to do some shopping and deliver it to the cottage on that date. He’d left a note dated 31st December and a very unsightly corpse. Apparently, he’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer early in November and spent his last two months arranging his death and funeral.  
He left everything to Withnail. His final note to him read (among other things): “As undeserving as you are of it, heaven knows you need it.”  
Two years later Withnail invited Marwood to spend the New Year in Cumbria. It quickly became a tradition, and one they both were rather fond of.

“Vicious old bugger,” Marwood grinned and he took a sip from his glass. “Having poor Parkin, with his arthritic knees and knuckles, get all that stuff up here…”  
Sniggering, Withnail started to count on his fingers: “Six cartons of milk, two bottles of vinegar, several bars of butter, two loaves of bread, three dozens of eggs, two jars of orange marmelade and two large bags of coal…”  
Marwood looked up at the ceiling. “It’s something of a miracle that chandelier hook is still in there, isn’t it…”  
Withnail snorted. “It’s quite surprising this whole fucking building didn’t collapse on top of him.”  
“Putting on your best dressing gown and your prettiest lipstick, downing your last bottle of Margaux and swinging from the chandelier hook. What a way to go…” Marwood said, to himself rather than to Withnail, swirling the whiskey in his glass, eyes never leaving the large hook in the ceiling.  
“Better than some vulgar little carcinoma, I wager,” Withnail remarked, increasingly annoyed by the morbid turn the conversation had taken. Why bring all that shit up now?  
“Carcinoma is so embarrasingly middle-class isn't it…” Marwood said with an odd glint in his eyes.  
“You would know, wouldn’t you,” said Withnail with a sneer as he poured himself another glass, emptying the bottle. Class struggle had been an ongoing joke between the two of them ever since Marwood had stopped voting Conservative.  
Marwood didn’t say anything, he merely smiled.

It of course wouldn’t occur to Withnail to draw any connection between that strange little smile that didn’t quite reach his friend’s eyes, and Marwood's unrelenting cough. He simply wasn’t the kind of chap to notice such small things in other people. Yet there was something heavy and persistent about Marwood’s silence that felt like a cold stone in Withnail’s stomach. He tossed his whiskey down in a single gulp, but the cold wouldn’t go away.  
“Cigarette?” He said and offered Marwood one of his Gauloises (a very uncharacteristic gesture indeed) but even as he did so, he realized he actually hadn't seen Marwood smoke all day.  
Marwood smiled but shook his head. “No, thanks. I quit.”


	2. A dreadfully hard frost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Withnail has to face the reality of things and he doesn't take it well.

Withnail failed to notice his cigarette had burnt up to the filter and gone out. He was sitting in his old armchair, staring at the opposite wall, biting his nails – and aging. He had aged more during this one night that he had in the previous twenty years. He was crumbling apart like a stale cookie.

About seven hours earlier, elsewhere...  
Of course he didn't need to be a genius to put together the pieces Marwood had cautiously fed him. But it still took him some days from that New Year's celebration to accept the possibility.  
To look it in the eye, so to speak.  
To look Marwood in the eyes and ask him, across that antique counter in his ridiculous little secondhand bookshop, whether those morbid remarks mumbled over a glass of whiskey in Monty's old cottage actually meant anything.  
Marwood was just arranging the books on the shelf when Withnail burst into the shop and blurted out - in jerky, disjointed chunks - the one question he'd probably been itching to ask since New Year's Eve, but hadn't dared to.  
No answer came. Peter was at a loss how to respond.  
Withnail's breath caught in his windpipe because he suddenly realized just how – not healthy – Marwood looked. He looked like a fucking Baroque saint, with his waxlike complexion, unruly curles, neatly trimmed beard, and sunken cheeks.  
Withnail cleared his throat and attempted a joke: “Well, obviously you have a history of hypochondria, so I assume...” He didn't finish. Marwood was hesitant with his reply, but the truth was written all over his face.

Withnail knew that something must have shown in his eyes, the snapping of the heart, the collapse of all defences – because Marwood's eyes instantly reflected it. The zen blue darkening with ripples of panic and guilt. Guilt! That was so bloody Marwood! The fool was dying and he was being  **fucking apologetic**  about it!  
“Come on, Withnail, I'm not ready to swing off a chandelier hook just yet...” His best soothing voice, like mulled wine in a cold evening or warm breath on chilled fingers - but with a raspy tinge to it that wasn't supposed to be there. Withnail's blank but progressively watery gaze urged Marwood to put down the book he was holding and rush to his friend. He clasped Withnail's shoulder and looked him in the eyes as if to stare the emerging tears back into his skull. “Come on, it's a bit too early for that... It's not even seven o'clock yet and you're not even drunk..." A small, unconvincing smile. "Withnail?"  
Withnail was not the kind of person to smother people with hugs - but there was nowhere else to hide from Marwood's concerned gaze and nothing else to hold on to. He drew him into a firm embrace and, as the realization that had been sinking in for a while finally and fully hit him, he began sobbing into Marwood's sweater.  
Withnail could sense Peter's discomfort, the sudden tenseness and detachment. Marwood always recoiled from passion and laughter and heartfelt tears, he was broken like that. There was that old familiar involuntary cringe in how he returned the embrace - and he didn't allow it to last for long, killing the moment all too quick. “Withnail..." he said, "I swear if your nose has been running all this time, I'll kill you.”  
Withnail stepped back as if something had bitten him, and wiped his snotty nose on his sleeve. “Stop being so fucking brave about it you...you self-satisfied little cunt!”  
Marwood peeped “Sorry...” and offered him a handkerchief.  
Withnail snatched it out of his hand. “And don't fucking apologize!”  
“OK, what am I supposed to do, Withnail...?”  
Poor Peter.   
_How about not dying before I do...?_  
Withnail took a deep shaky breath. “How... How long?”  
“It hasn't come down to that question yet,” Marwood replied.   
Withnail looked icy blue question marks at him.  
Marwood risked a cautious encouraging smile. “As it is, my chances are dishearteningly slim, but they are bigger then zero. Chemo and radiation first and if that does the trick it's supposed to do, surgery. And some more chemo after that...”  
“And if it doesn't do the trick?”  
“If it doesn't do the trick, I'm fucked. So pull yourself together, because this...” He gave Withnail an irritatingly patronizing pat on the shoulder. “This is the shoulder I'm going to cry on if it doesn't work out.”  
Withnail forced a grin. Marwood responded with a slight shake of his head. “Don't do that Withnail, your teeth are scary as fuck when you do that. Tea?”  
“If it comes with some brandy...” Withnail's voice was still a bit hoarse and he had to clear his throat. “Please...”  
“Sure. Make yourself comfortable, grab one of the chairs...”  
And he disappeared upstairs to make the tea and get the brandy.

There were a few old chairs in the shop, for people who wanted to sit down with a book (though a lot of customers used them instead of library steps). Withnail grabbed the nearest one and sat down by the counter. He picked up the book Marwood had left there. It was an old volume. Deep crimson, leather-bound cover, no inscriptions. He opened it on a random page and read the first couple of lines.  
_'...“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”_  
“ _It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the Swallow. ...'_  
Withnail cursed under his breath, snapped the book closed and threw it back on the counter. He knew Marwood would be upset not to find him there but he couldn't stay.  
On his way out, he turned the hanging sign to 'CLOSED' and slammed the door behind him.

Less than six and half an hour later, there and then.  
Withnail had the bad habit of taking things and people for granted – and as such, he always found himself badly shaken when that assumption was challenged.  
Having Marwood around felt so normal, so natural – that any other eventuality simply failed to register.  
Even back in 1969, when he was sitting in this very armchair, with a shotgun in his mouth, Peter was still somehow present. And maybe it saved Withnail's life that day.  
It was Peter's voice, that voice in his head that told him to be sensible and _pull himself together, for fuck's sake._ The same voice that had on so many occasions tried to talk sense into him.   
_You really should call your agent and apologize, Withnail,_ and  
_When was the last time you had something to eat, Withnail,_ and  
_I wouldn't drink that if I were you..._  
And, for once, Withnail decided to latch onto that voice instead of giving in to the fear, the hurt, and the booze which all urged him on to _pull the fucking trigger_.  
It was as if Marwood had never really left - like he'd just gone to the shops and was merely taking longer than usual to get back. _It's not like he's gone forever,_  another little voice would say. And it was right. It took two miserable years - but Peter came back in the end.  
  
Withnail lit another cigarette and, realizing the ashtray was already overflowing, let the ashes fall into his lap.  
That little voice was unnervingly silent this time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two notable literary references (the title of the chapter, the quotation from the book) both allude to 'The Happy Prince' by Oscar Wilde, of course.


	3. Walking with a friend in the dark...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...is better than walking alone in the light.
> 
> -Helen Keller

When Marwood heard the cussing and the slamming of the door accompanied by the angry ringing of the shopkeeper's bell, he sighed, returned the tea and sugar back into the cabinet, took the kettle off the fire and switched off the cooker.  
He needed that tea with Withnail. He'd just had his first chemo session a day ago, he felt like shit and he was craving a mug of earl grey and some companionable silence. He needed a space of an hour or two, a pocket of serenity and sanity where he could share his grief - and he needed to share it with Withnail.

He had been alone with this new predicament of his for too long. Withnail had accused him of being inappropriately brave about it, but he wasn't, not by a long shot. His life might have been a string of low-key melodramas and embarrassing failures (failed acting career and failed marriage came to mind), but he still felt pretty attached to it. He hadn't told anyone yet because he was too bloody frightened to bring the topic up. Even Withnail had been forced to work it out from hints and clues, poor sod.  
No, Marwood wasn't feeling brave at all.

It had been a few months since his doctor had told him something 'showed up' on his X-rays and further testing was necessary. 'Now, don't worry Mr Marwood, it's probably something quite banal, but we'd better make sure...' Several weeks and a round of tests and screenings later, Marwood was told just how grim his prospects were. That evening he got utterly arseholed and gave his tumour a name because the little fucker kind of felt like a Christopher and because why the hell not. He'd developed a habit of talking to it since then. He even started to work on a short novel in epistolary form. The funny twist was that in his novel, Chris would occasionally possess its host and write back. When he admitted as much to his oncologist during their pre-chemo session, she smiled like someone who's used to hearing all kinds of wacky shit. Then she asked if she could read it once it was finished. He didn't refuse, although he was pretty sure he wasn't going to finish it.

Marwood glanced at the sheet of paper rolled into the typewriter. Maybe he should do some writing, he thought. That had been the original plan, anyway – before Withnail showed up. So he locked the shop and sat down to the typewriter with a great deal of determination – only to spend the following two hours staring at an empty page. Words were swirling and buzzing about in his head like a swarm of hornets but none of them would sting to get him going. He was too bloody tired and he couldn't stop thinking about Withnail. He went to bed early that evening.

The morning was dark, cold and sour and pushed him out of the bed much sooner than he deemed decent. He'd thrashed about all night, tired and numb but unable to sleep. He felt sick as a dog, which meant his anti-nausea meds weren't working. He'd have to call the hospital, he might even have to stay there overnight and the very idea made him even sicker.  
When he dragged himself down the stairs, a pack of biscuits in one hand, the sick bucket in the other, the grandafther clock by the counter said quarter past three.  
“This feels awfully like good old days... I should have named you Withnail,” he muttered. “Keeping me up at night, getting me acquainted with people who deal in toxic substances with intimidating names, never washing up...”  
He grabbed a chair and sat down. The book he'd left there the previous evening was still lying next to the till. He picked it up. He noticed that several pages were creased and he frowned. The only dog-ears he approved of were dog ears on dogs' heads. Not only that, these dog-ears hadn't been there a few hours before, he was quite sure of that. He fanned the book open to the first creased page.  
_'...“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince..._  
Withnail's hasty departure the previous evening suddenly made a lot more sense. Something squeezed at Marwood's heart that instant and twisted it dry like a dirty floorcloth. He could feel all blood draining from his face. He rubbed his temples and - as was often the case when he was reminded of Withnail - he sighed.  
He smoothed the pages, carefully closed the book and put it back on the counter.  
And then he began to laugh because the idea of Withnail comparing himself to Happy Prince was bloody hysterical. (That one time Withnail's agent suggested that donating to charity was a great PR was the first and the last time she ever dared to bring it up.)

Withnail was yanked out of his semi-consciousness by the sound of loud pounding (or kicking) at the door. He looked at his watch. 8:40. He thought he'd dreamt it, having been half asleep, but then the kicking (yes, it was definitely kicking) started again.  
“Open the door, you bastard, I've got your tea and brandy!” And then a violent bout of cough.  
Withnail jumped to his feet and ran to the door. When he opened it, Marwood was just about to start kicking again. He was holding a bottle of Hennessy in one hand, a thermos in the other, and a book under his arm. “I hope you have milk because I dropped the bottle when I was getting out of the taxi...”  
“What... What are you doing here?”  
“Your manner of departure yesterday evening was so bloody rude it warrants a retribution by means of a badly timed social call,” Marwood replied matter-of-factly. And then he added: “And I was feeling kind of lonely and worried and you happen to be my best friend.”  
Withnail blinked and hesitated.  
Marwood was beginning to sound annoyed: “I won't keep you for long, Withnail. Just a cuppa and then I'm off to hospital, anyway.”  
Withnail finally came round. “Please, do come in, put that stuff anywhere you like...” He dashed to the window and opened it, all of a sudden painfully aware of the thick wisps of cigarette smoke rolling about. “Maybe we should go someplace else, it's fucking Ypres in here...” He mumbled.  
Marwood went straight to the kitchen. “Right... Kitchen looks and smells about fine.” In fact it looked and smelled terrible, but at least it wasn't foggy in there.  
When Withnail joined him, Marwood had already poured him a cup of tea and a glass of cognac and was now scavenging for milk and cookies. The book he brought was lying on the table. It was bound in deep crimson leather, without title or any other inscription on the cover. Withnail recognized it immediately. “What are you reading?” He asked.  
“The Remarkable Rocket,” Marwood replied. Then he sat down with a jar of cookies and a box of milk he'd found, looked Withnail straight in the eye and grinned like a jackal. “I am quite fond of it, reminds me of you a fair bit...” Cheeky little bastard.  
Despite himself, Withnail laughed.  
Marwood grew serious. “But in all fairness to you, you're scattered all over the book. Good bits and bad ones...” He pushed the book across the table, towards Withnail. “You've displayed some interest in it, so here you go. You haven't been very gentle, you know... Pages 25 to 34 are all dog-eared.”  
Withnail wouldn't dare to look in Marwood's eyes at this point, partly because of the reproachful tone in his friend's voice, partly because he was afraid of whatever he might read in them. “I'll pay for it, don't worry,” was the only answer he could muster.  
Marwood tucked the book underneath Withnail's resting hand. “Consider it a gift.”  
More than an antique book was being given. Even Withnail understood as much.  
The two men exchanged glances and resumed their tea drinking but it didn't take long before Marwood got sick and had to dart off to the bathroom.  
When he emerged he looked noticeably paler and weaker. “Well...” He croaked and cleared his throat. “I'd better get going.”  
Withnail was frozen to the chair, his face an open book, his eyes neon pools of liquid panic. He managed a question: “Can I help?”  
Peter sat down and smiled weakly. “Come on, Withnail, don't look at me like you've never seen me get sick before.”  
“I've seen you look, smell and throw up a lot worse, sunshine, but the context is everything,” Withnail replied, relaxing just a bit. It hurt that Peter made light of his worries and his tone must have carried that message over, for Marwood reached across the table and gently squeezed his hand.  
“I need more anti-sickness meds, I suppose,” he explained. “Or different ones. You can't help with that... But you _could_ call me a taxi.”  
He was trying to give him something to do, to make him feel useful. And Withnail was endlessly grateful. Suddenly, he was all business. “Alright. Have you called your doctor yet? No? What's his number?”  
“Got her number right here...” Marwood handed him a name card and watched him disappear into the living room. It took about twenty minutes but when Withnail came back, he was neatly combed, smartly dressed and carrying a suitcase. “Alright, get going, the taxi's waiting.”  
Marwood blinked and frowned. “What're you doing?”  
“Get up, I said! I'm going with you. And then we're going to your place. Don't forget the thermos. And the brandy. Especially the brandy.”

A few hours later, Marwood was slouched in his armchair with a cup of cold coffee in his hands and quietly observing Withnail, who was trying to fold out the old couch in his living room. The process was painful to watch and quickly turning into a worrying and fruitless display of Withnail's monumental clumsiness and short temper. Marwood let it go on for about a minute or two before he decided he'd seen enough. “Withnail?” He peeped, schooling his voice into a hesitant, almost sheepish tone. “I think I've forgotten to lock the door downstairs. I feel a bit giddy, could you please go and check? The spare key is under the till...” Withnail glared at him for a moment but then he muttered a curse under his breath and did as Marwood asked.  
When he returned, the couch was folded out and Marwood was sitting in the armchair, sipping his coffee and looking perfectly innocent.  
“It's locked,” Withnail said. “But I suppose you don't need  _me_  to tell you.”  
“You don't have to do this, Withnail. I don't need a nurse," Marwood said. "I'll be fine,” he added - knowing full well that no, he most probably wouldn't.  
Withnail knew it too, judging from the look he gave him. “I'm not your fucking nurse, I'm your much needed company,” he mumbled. Then he squatted in front of Marwood, took the cup from him and put it on the coffee table. "You'll have to cut down on that coffee." He gently clasped Marwood's hands in his own and, finding them rather cold, he started to rub some warmth into them. “I'll stay for a few days, until you recover a bit. And then I'll be out of here, before we start driving each other insane.” The light-hearted and slightly aloof tone of his voice clashed with the warmth in his eyes – the kind of warmth that goodbyes and fond memories are made of. There was a barely discernible but very persistent baseline of sheer panic underneath all the conflicting signals.  
Marwood was completely defenseless against even the subtlest displays of Withnail's vulnerability. Raw emotion was an alien thing to him, sometimes amusing, sometimes moving, sometimes frightening and sometimes disgusting. Yet never fully comprehensible, not even when he got himself high enough to actually feel something of the sort. But Withnail was all these things, a swirling maelstrom of contradictions, howling with a thousand gales and crowned with a wreath of storm clouds. The cowardly aspect of Marwood's psyche always wanted to run away from that and on many occasions he had. He felt that urge even now – to put as much distance as possible between himself and the barely contained vortex of love, fear, grief, anger, and confusion that was Withnail.  
But he realized he wasn't capable of such betrayal. Not again. Not this time.  
“Thank you,“ he said. There was a sense of surrender to it. And definitely a note of gratitude.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to flowersaretarts for the beta! Hugs, kisses and sherry!


	4. Mirrors and Echoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll sing of the walls of the well and the house at the top of the hill  
> I'll sing of the bottles of wine that we left on our old windowsill  
> I'll sing of the years you will spend getting sadder and older  
> ...and the cold, the oncoming cold...
> 
> \- Beirut, _Cliquot_

One of the first things Withnail did the next morning was confiscate all the coffee he could find.  
Marwood was not happy.  
He watched on, an embodiment of utter desperation, as his new self-appointed guardian let the contents of all the coffee jars disappear down the toilet.  
“That crapper will never sleep properly again,” he mumbled petulantly, as the last remnants of a very fine costa-rican blend went down.  
“Your skin already looks and feels like rice paper, sunshine, no need to make it worse.” Withnail explained. “Doctor Lee said cut down on the coffee, so we're cutting down on the coffee.” He was being so bloody earnest Marwood almost cracked up at the sight.  
This was going to be a difficult – if hilarious – couple of days.

...  
“It's disgusting, isn't it...” Withnail said after watching Marwood's heroic endeavour to eat and keep down the scrambled eggs he'd made for dinner. Marwood shook his head furiously but, try as he might to pretend otherwise, the effort it cost him to swallow the stuff was all too apparent. Withnail took a spoonful, tasted it and frowned. It was perfectly palatable.  
Marwood put down his spoon. “It's the chemo. Everything tastes funny now,” he said.   
“Well, you have to eat _something_ ,” Withnail replied. “You've barely eaten anything all day.” He put on a serious face. “Three more spoons. At least.”  
He must have overdone it with the stern glare, for a single look at him was enough to reduce Marwood to a pile of helpless giggles. 

...  
In the end, Withnail stayed much longer than a couple of days. Well over a week, in fact.  
Marwood's nausea subsided with the new meds, but all kinds of other complications popped up. He just went from sick as a dog to sick as a pike. To make matters worse, he was a terribly undisciplined patient, which was driving Withnail borderline insane.  
“Have you eaten, Peter?”  
“You need to drink more water.”  
“What do you mean you're going out for a walk? In that paper thin jacket? And where's your bloody scarf, you self-destructive maniac!”  
“Have you spoken to your doctor about those nosebleeds...?”  
Withnail felt ridiculously out of character, fretting over Marwood like a mother hen, but he was left with little choice, as Marwood himself had apparently run out of fucks to give.

...  
Withnail had always enjoyed watching Marwood when he was not aware of his gaze - either sound asleep or deep in thought or absorbed in a book... It was the only time he could look at him the way he deserved to be looked at, with unabashedly loving eyes.  
Some things hadn't changed in those past twenty years. Like the little twitches and ticks around Marwood's eyes and the corners of his mouth when he was dreaming or the way he hugged the pillow. The crease between his brows and the pouting of his upper lip when he was reading a good book and the subtle shifts of his expression reflecting the mood of the text. The perfect thoughtful serenity which allowed the loveliness of his features to shine through whenever he got lost in his musings.  
But of course it felt different now. Withnail would often find himself not merely watching, but staring – and memorizing. Memorizing every little detail, every wrinkle on Marwood's face, every tangle of his unruly hair, his every movement and mannerism, learning by heart the play of light on his face.  
Sometimes Marwood would glance his way and notice; a shadow would always pass over his eyes, like a murder of crows blocking out a pale November sun.

...  
They hadn't spoken about Peter's prognosis since that embarrassing scene in the bookshop, but Withnail was more or less sure that Marwood's chances were measured in months, maybe a couple of years. Anything beyond that was pretty much a religious territory – and the religious never registered as particularly relevant with Withnail. Despite Marwood's initial insistence on the contrary, “how long” had been the big question from the start and Withnail couldn't help but ask himself just that whenever he looked upon his friend's progressively frail form.

...  
Shortly before the end of week one the fatigue and drowsiness kicked in.  
Peter slept a lot these days and when he wasn't sleeping or falling asleep, he preferred to be left alone, responding to any attempt to engage him in conversation with testiness and reticence. It was hard to say whether he was just suffering from chemo side effects or getting fed up with his present company.  
It became frighteningly silent in the flat.  
Marwood didn't have a TV set. He didn't even own a bloody radio. There was an old gramophone and an impressive collection of records in his living room – but Marwood and Withnail differed quite dramatically in an awful lot of things and their musical preferences were among them. Marwood's collection was an ecclectic mix of Russian songwriters, Celtic and Eastern European folk songs, space music, punk, post punk, rap, modern jazz, classic rock (the one area where their tastes somewhat overlapped) and all kinds of bizarre shit that Withnail didn't even have a name for. If indeed they had any names at all. Many of the records were odd fusions of obscure stuff, a thing Marwood had always had a bit of a fetish for. He loved to occupy the spaces between worlds, the border regions. His mind always flickered along the blurry edges of things. He was hooked on dialogs, exchanges, processes, things that had and wanted no labels... Like that confusing bastard of a feeling he had for Withnail.

...  
There was an increasingly dense air of uneasiness hanging about the apartment and it grew thicker and heavier with every worried glance from Withnail that Marwood intercepted.  
It began to feel haunted, and it was only a matter of time before one of them had enough.

...  
The third day of silence Withnail decided he'd pop back to his place to pick up his radio.  
“You OK with that, Peter?”  
Marwood looked up from the page he'd been reading-not-reading since they'd come back from a chemo session earlier that day. “Sure!” For the first time in several days the tone of his voice approached something akin to enthusiasm. “And don't come back until midnight if possible...” He tried to soften that with a smile, but failed. There was much genuine concern but also a barely concealed trace of irritation when he said: “You look terribly downcast, Withnail, and it's my fault. Take a walk, see a movie, go to a pub or to the zoo, whatever tickles your fancy. Just... Take a break and a day away from me.”  
The dreary silence of previous days had greatly undermined Withnail's composure and something in him finally snapped. “If I've overstayed my welcome, just say so. No need to tiptoe around it like a fucking prima ballerina.” There was a lot more vitriol in it than Withnail had intended and definitely more than Peter deserved.  
“You know, what, Withnail?” Marwood closed the book with a loud, resounding SNAP and – for the first time in several days – met Withnail's eyes boldly. He made no effort to tone down his irritation this time. “I wouldn't mind spending a day alone.” He could sound frighteningly cold when he wanted to. Withnail almost said something, opening and closing his mouth like a fish – but the words somehow didn't make it past the vocal cords; they froze in his throat halfway up and made him feel like he'd start choking on them any moment.  
“It's jolly hard, you know... I feel pretty much dead already because with you around this place is about as cheerful as a graveyard on a fucking Christmas Eve!” Marwood's hand holding the book became wax white on the knuckles and his voice was quickly packing up volume, all the anger, fear and grief he'd kept bottled up exploding straight into Withnail's face, his every word a shard of ice. “It's like living in a place made of warped mirrors and bad echos! Every minute, every hour, every day you're here, **grieving**! I don't want your grief, Withnail! Spare it for a more appropriate moment, like, you know, my  **fucking funeral**!” He flung the book on the ground and Withnail winced when he saw its back split in the middle.

In the space of the couple of seconds he needed to catch his breath, the sudden outburst already began to seem a thing apart to Marwood, cruel, ugly, and incomprehensible. When he looked up, Withnail was still standing there, looking like he'd just taken a stab under the ribs.  
Marwood bowed his head and fixed his eyes on the book lying on the carpet. It reminded him of a dead pigeon that's been left in the middle of the road until a pair of mangled wings was all that was left.  
When he spoke, he sounded tired. “Why aren't you angry... Why don't you cuss and call me names and storm out and come back drunk as a lord...” Not a tear in his eyes but his voice was a slow current, thick with salt. “Or call me in the middle of the night from a bar in Soho or wherever the hell your whims take you... I could deal with that. But I can't handle you like this, Withnail...”  
Withnail picked up the book, closed it gently and handed it to him. “I'll go pack up,” he said. “I have apparently overstayed my welcome after all.”  
Marwood was about to deny it and apologize but Withnail's glare shut him up before he even opened his mouth.

Withnail was packed and ready to go in an hour. A part of Marwood felt lonely already, but he wouldn't dissuade him. Neither of them was exactly thriving, he felt, and they needed some time apart from one another.  
“Be good, Peter,” Withnail said before he left. He even managed an encouraging smile. “Or I'll be back. And you know I suck at being the responsible one, so please don't force me...”  
“Take care, Withnail.” A shake of hands and a brief, friendly hug. “And don't worry, I'll be fine. I'll call you when I get better.”  
Withnail paused between the door. “It's either all of me or nothing, Peter,” he said. “Believe me, if I could separate myself from my...grief, I would have done so.”  
And then he was out before things got even more awkward than they already were.  
Marwood remained standing at the door long after the taxi had gone, thinking of rain and thunder and that last time he'd drunk Margaux '53. Twenty years on and he still remembered the taste.  
Withnail had once confessed to him he'd probably never forget the taste and the feel of the shotgun barrel in his mouth. Said he sometimes had nightmares about it.  
Damn Withnail and his feelings.  
It just made everything so much more difficult.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to _flowersaretarts_ for the beta!


	5. Withnail & ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are haunted places...

Withnail didn't go back to his flat in Chelsea. The very idea of the place made his skin crawl.  
Even as the cab was taking to the road, he started regretting he'd left Marwood alone. He almost twisted his head off, so desperate he was to keep him in his sight. The man soon became a mere pale outline in the light grey of his sweater and the washed out blue of his jeans, partly obstructed by the frame of the bookshop door.  
Withnail caught himself memorizing again. The colour of Marwood's favourite pullover, his posture as he was leaning against the door frame, the bookshop and the sign above it, and the street that felt like a second home because Peter was there. Until it all disappeared round the corner.  
And his bloody grief still there with him, lodged in his stomach like a knot of eels.  
“Where are we going, sir?” The driver asked.  
He gave him the address of his favourite bar and leant back into the seat, letting his mind wander as the streets of London floated by outside the cab window. Images from the past were flashing in front of his mind's eye, little snapshots of what used to be. They mostly featured Peter; young, smiling, gorgeous - and with what seemed like endless horizons still ahead of him.  
  
  
_Peter scribbling in his notebook and grinning at something Danny had said;_  
  
_Peter huddled up in his coat and smoking a ciggy, listening patiently to one of Withnail's rants as they were waiting for the pub to open;_  
  
_Peter as stoned as a shrimp and laughing his head off over a copy of Sheridan's_ Rivals _..._

_Peter waiting for him at the door to his shabby flat in East End one September evening in 1971 - months after Withnail had more or less ceased to hope he'd ever see him again. And it felt as if the world came back to its senses, all its cogs falling back into place with a soft, reassuring click._

 

Loud honking of the cab's horn and a tirade from the cabbie aimed at some homeless sod who'd just very nearly got himself run over pulled Withnail back into the present. They were only a few blocks from his destination.  
“Pull over here, please,” he said. “I'll walk the rest.”

 

 

 


	6. The thing with feathers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The overcast has cleared away, now winter sun glows bright and warm.  
>  _Push the boat, push the boat!_  
>  Heaven and earth seem frozen still, but the sea remains the same.  
>  _Chigukch'ong, chigukch'ong, ŏsawa!_  
>  Endlessly the waves rise and fall,  
> billowing like blown silk. 
> 
> \- Yun Sondo: _The Fisherman's Calendar_

_"Her eyes murmured a profound green, a note of green he'd never heard before, though he may have tasted it once._  
_It took him a while to remember, but remember he did._  
_Gyokuro._  
_She had gyokuro eyes._  
_It's intriguing how - when the presence in one's eyes flickers and goes out, snuffed out by the breath of years, or a gunshot, or any other of the ill winds that tickle and rattle and inevitably blow down our braincages – all the tastes, smells and music die. The boring visuals is all that's left._  
_So when his searching mind reached out for her heart and wrung it to a halt, her eyes turned from vibrant gyokuro to dull grey-green. Probably a 6 on the Martin–Schultz scale."_

Dr. Lee Jin-song bought and read one book a week and she loved exploring small bookshops, a new one every month. This place, tiny and stacked up to the ceiling with a varied assortment of volumes, was the 9th bookshop she visited here in London. Its proprietor (one hag of a lady, disturbingly reminiscent of a hybrid between a stick bug and a misshapen Cuban cigar) reeked of tobacco and Bulgarian rose perfume. The resulting mixture of aromas was overwhelmingly present in every cubic inch of the available air. Maybe that was why there were no other customers.  
It had been while exploring here when a familiar name popped at her out of a long line of paperbacks stacked on one of the shelves.  
_Storm in a teacup_  by Peter Marwood.

The book she was now holding in her hands.  
In fact, she'd been reminded of the name earlier that morning, by the very voice it belonged to. Mr Marwood was supposed to show up on Monday for a dose of chemo and a round of tests, but he called to ask if he could see her sooner - 'if her schedule permits, of course' - about a 'slight bleeding problem'. Given his penchant for understatement, he was probably long overdue for a drip. She was going to see him in her office in about three and a half hours.

She flipped a few pages, to the beginning of the next chapter.

 _"One look at that Blaine fellow and he knew this and every other working day with him would be an agonizing one. Blaine looked, smelled and sounded like one of those_  people-who-don't-like-jazz _."_

The shopkeeper approached her with a disapproving look on her face and an unpleasant attitude about her that someone with so few customers might want to reconsider. Dr. Lee had originally intended to stay a bit longer, but upon noticing the crone's somewhat intimidating proximity, she quickly said: “I'll buy it.”  
As the old woman was counting out the change, Lee asked: “Do you have his other books?”  
A long, questioning blown-up look from behind a pair of beer-mug-bottom goggles. “Nah. He sells poorly,” came a croaky reply. “I've got a soft spot for the bugger, so I always have the newest one, but that's it.”  
“Shame,” sighed Dr. Lee and put the book in her bag.  
“Indeed. I mean, he's no Gibson but he's interesting enough. I'd try big bookstores if I were you, I think I've seen some of his stuff in one of those. Or go ask him personally, he's got a bookshop on Pratt, near the junction with Bayham. Loves to chat about books, too. Ask him about Bertrand or Coetzee and he won't shut up for hours... Might offer you tea as well.”  
Lee Jin-song could very well imagine that. “Do you know him well?”  
“No, not really.” The shopkeeper wasn't paying her any attention any more. The transaction was over and, unlike Mr Marwood, this lady apparently wasn't the chatty sort.

…  
As Dr. Lee had suspected, Mr Marwood was in a terrible shape.  
It was just one flight of stairs up to her office, but it rendered him breathless. His 'slight bleeding problem' manifested itself before he even sat down. By the time he managed to get some tissues out of his pocket, both he and the pale blue lino under him looked like there'd been a mugging. And as he kept mumbling muffled apologies (for what, Heaven knew) through a handful of cellulose, the tissues were quickly turning into sticky crimson pulp in his hand and soon the blood started dripping anew, all over his beard, shirt and down on the floor.  
“How long has this been going on and how often does it happen, Mr Marwood?”  
“Dunno, a few days... Fuck!” He cursed as he desperately tried to fish more tissues out of the pack. But his hands were slick and sticky and they kept shaking and – – in the end he just gave up and held his nose with his bloodied fingers. “A couple times a day,” he added in a comical nasalized voice. “But it's never been this bad... Been getting bruises, too.”  
Dr. Lee handed him a towel. “A few days, sir? May I know why you failed to mention your 'slight bleeding problem' when we saw each other on Monday? Haven't we agreed that you'd  **certainly**  let me know, should you experience  **anything**  out of the ordinary?"  
"I am letting you know, aren't I," he said, pinching his nose through the folds of fabric.   
"Well, next time try not to put it off for so long," she said rather sternly. He fidgeted a little. She continued: "You're very ill, Mr Marwood, and the medication you're being treated with is no aspirin. You'd better drop that nonchalant attitude and start behaving responsibly."  
He listened to her admonishment without protests or excuses, with an expression in his eyes that was hard to read.  
"I'm afraid we're going to have to keep you here for a couple of nights,” she concluded.  
He looked at her imploringly and shook his head in mute protest.   
Dr. Lee had noticed before and was now noting again that he had the kind of look that would melt an iceberg. March-equinox blue.  
“No discussions, Mr Marwood. You're clearly anaemic and I bet when we run the tests we'll find out the number of platelets in your blood has dropped to a critical low. You need a drip and a lot of rest. Would you like to phone anyone? Have them bring over your stuff or something?”  
He mumbled through the layers of terrycloth: “No need. I was kind of expecting this...” He pointed to a small brown suitcase he'd brought with him.  
Dr. Lee called the nurse, who turned up within a matter of seconds, ready to show Marwood to his bed. As he rose from the chair, he caught the sight of the shiny new paperback volume of  _Storm in a teacup_  on Dr. Lee's desk. He glanced at the doctor.  
“Is it any good?” He asked after a few seconds of awkward silence. Through all that fabric and with all that lukewarm blood now trickling down his throat, he sounded like someone talking from inside a kettle.  
“I enjoy it,” she replied with an enthusiastic nod.  
He probably smiled back, though Dr. Lee could only guess as much, as the towel was covering most of his face. But the lines around his eyes wrinkled up a bit for a brief moment. Like a flutter of fairy wings.  
And then he mumbled a word or two of 'see you' or 'goodbye' and was gone.  
Much to her chagrin, Dr. Lee realized that whenever Peter Marwood left her office, it felt like a marked absence. As if the temperature in the room dropped by a couple of degrees.  
...  
Mr Marwood was supposed to stay till Monday. But of course he wouldn't.  
He got his drip, he got some new pills, he spent one short, sleepless night in his hospital bed – and then he packed his stuff, put on his (still blood stained) clothes – and checked out of the hospital, AMA.  
Dr. Lee wasn't surprised at all, though she did her best to talk some sense into him. He wouldn't have any of it.

…

So here he was now, sitting at a table in a small café, sipping coffee and explaining to an elderly bespectacled woman why he had cancelled their Thursday evening backgammon session. He was giving her the long version.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier, Jay, I just...”  
She reached out and gently patted his hand. “I  **was**  wondering,” she said in that raspy, croaky voice of hers that Marwood so liked. "You haven't quite been yourself lately." And then she slapped his fingers in mock anger. “So what are you doing here?! Drinking coffee, second-hand smoking, and being an idiot - instead of being good and listening to your well-meaning doctor?! Tsk. Men and the stubborn heads of theirs! Your oncologist should be an old geezer, cynical to the very core of him and immune to those vergissmeinnichts of yours!” She cackled, jabbing a bony finger at him.  
“I just couldn't stand that ugly limbo of a room, there were dead people in there, ” he explained, resting his chin on his hand. “I mean... They were...are...lovely chaps, all three of them. Old professor Taylor and his stories from the Great War, half of them pure fiction, no doubt, but the good sort, mind you... And Joe, who knows everything about DC comics and repairing clocks... I think he said he used to be a construction worker... And that crazy biker, Gary... With an Eeyore tattoo on his shoulder and a Tigger attitude to pretty much everything..." He shrugged. "But honestly, I was quite unable to truly appreciate any of that because I was so bloody distracted by the sight and the sounds of their...dying.”  
Jay tried to seek out his eyes but he was staring out of the café window and onto the street, looking unfocused and lost... “Y'know... The tubes, the respirators, the sounds that issued from their throats... Not to mention other things, y'know, those that ended up in spittoons...” He made a grimace. “They were all turned inside out, like socks... ”  
Jay had no words to pacify the fear she saw in his eyes.  
“I've developed a dislike for mirrors lately, especially the kind that's so bloody ahead of now,” he murmured, finally looking away from the street and into Jay's eyes. “And let's face it, what I saw in that hospital room,” he said in an elaborately level, controlled voice, smiling a very weak smile, “that's me in a year. Or two. If I'm very lucky. I don't really want to think about that yet...”  
“You sound like one of your goddamn novels, darling,” Jay said with one eyebrow slightly raised. “You need to see people more.”  
A sudden change came over him when she said that. He lit up like a Christmas tree, from doom and gloom to stardust and fairy lights. “Well, speaking of my novels,” he said, “my oncologist is actually reading the newest one. She seems to like it. Imagine that! I might have a fan!”  
“Did you say her name was Lee?” Jay asked, her interest suddenly piqued. “As in Bruce Lee, not Christopher Lee? What does she look like?”  
“East Asian and nerdy,” he replied, with a hint of a fond smile. “Smiling eyes. Younger than she actually is. Sports a magnificent monster of a fringe.” Stress on 'magnificent'. “Looks super girly but walks like a bloke.”   
“Guess where she got that book,” Jay smirked.   
“I love it when London gets small like that...” He said. “Hope you didn't overdo it with your notorious hospitality...”   
“I could have been a bit more pleasant, I'm afraid.”   
Marwood rolled his eyes, shook his head and grinned into his coffee before taking a sip.   
“She asked if I had your other books,” Jay teased. “Either she really liked those few lines she'd read in my shop or she really likes **you**.”  
Marwood wiggled his eyebrows at her as if to say 'still got it' – but chose not to comment.  
They spent a while in comfortable silence, sipping coffee, observing the street and pretending he hadn't just told her to start looking for a new backgammon partner.  
But he had.

 

“What about your poncy twat of a husband?” She finally asked. She had never been particularly fond of Withnail (or Withnail of her) – but that fop mattered to Marwood a lot – and since Marwood mattered to her, she wasn't entirely devoid of concern.  
Marwood shot her the kind of annoyed glance he had reserved for moments when she teased him about his friendship with Withnail – or when she gloated at him after crushing him at backgammon (or worse, scrabble). But he replied, regardless: “He's not taking it well.”  
“Tell me, darling, does he have  **anything**  in his miserable life besides the odd acting gig, booze, and you? Like friends, for example?”  
“I'm thinking of buying him a dog,” he said.  
She almost laughed out loud but realized, just in time, that Marwood wasn't joking.   
They sat for a while longer, neither of them inclined to speak.  
Finally, she looked at her watch and sighed. “Hate to go now – but the lunch break's over... Them books won't sell themselves.”  
He smirked. “I think they'd do a better job at it than you, love...”  
“Says the man who trades old books for scratched vinyls,” Jay retorted before finishing her coffee in a single gulp. “Care to come with me? Got some old geography books you might be interested in. I was gonna bring them on Thursday, before you called the session off.”   
“No, thanks. I'd better go home and get some sleep. Didn't get much of it in hospital.”  
They paid their bill and went out, back into the chilly afternoon. “So...” He said, wrapping his scarf around him. “When do we make up for that missed game?”  
“I'll drop by tonight, how about that?” Jay suggested. Marwood didn't protest.  
She wasn't the sentimental type. No tears, no embraces... But she did hold his hand longer and more firmly than usual. “You know what they say about hope, sweetie...”  
He sniggered: “Daughter of Death, begat by Lucifer! Deranged that bitch may be but ain't she beautiful...” *)  
She cackled with laughter and slapped his shoulder. “Idiot. NOT what I meant.”  
“But fitting,” he returned.  
“Well, off with you now!” She said, making shooing gestures. “Get your arse out of here and somewhere warm. Preferably home. See you in the evening.”  
He smiled and nodded instead of replying, and started walking away. She lit a cigarillo and watched him disappear round the corner and out of her sight.  
Then she returned into the café.  
“I think I need another coffee. And a large rum,” she announced to the surprised waiter, as she sat down at her favourite table. "Work's cancelled for today." Before the waiter managed to walk away, she quickly added: “Wait! Jack? Make it two large rums.”  
Jack eyed her suspiciously. That was twice as much rum than was usual for Jay, and four hours too early. But whatever the reason, she looked like she didn't want to talk about it, so he didn't pry.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *) Yep, he's referencing (not citing) Baudelaire. _Les Litanies de Satan_.  
>  (The title of the chapter is a quotation from [Emily Dickinson](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hope-is-the-thing-with-feathers/).)
> 
> As usual, thanks to _flowersaretarts_ for the beta!


	7. An interlude

When Withnail finally got back to his flat after a few days of light sleep and a few nights of heavy drinking, the cold and the silence that awaited him there almost made him turn on his heel and head to the nearest pub. And he would have, had it not been early in the morning - which meant most places were closed. He turned on the radio to banish the silence.  
Now to deal with the chill. He needed a cup of tea. Or better, grog.   
He threw his suitcase on the sofa and headed for the kitchen. As he entered, his gaze fell upon a patch of deep crimson on the kitchen table.  
The book. Lying here for days, completely forgotten. He picked it up and gently ran the tips of his fingers over the surface of the cover.  
It felt awfully cold, like everything else in this place.

He opened it. There was a post-it note on the contents page that read, in Marwood's elegant but barely legible handwriting: _A personalised edition. Be gentle to it._

Withnail frowned and started turning the pages. The book was beautifully vandalized. All manners of notes, short and long, were scribbled in pencil and black ink in the margins, in the corners and between paragraphs. Several sealed envelopes were tucked between the pages. Withnail found it both slightly disconcerting and perversely satisfying that, for his sake, Marwood was capable of doing this to such a precious volume. He really was a bad influence on poor Peter, even now.  
Grinning through a haze of tears, he flipped through the book and closed it. It wasn't meant to be read for a while yet and he didn't really feel up to it right now, anyway. So he opened the bookcase and gently tucked the “personalized” Wilde between Monty's old diary and his album of newspaper clippings.

He made himself a large mug of grog and played the voice messages he'd received while he was away. His agent had called several times in past three days – apparently he was a serious candidate for a major part in a historical mini-series.   
He'd call her later.  
He started sifting through the post that had accumulated over the past three weeks. Not much of interest in there, except one letter – an elegant envelope with his address written on it in a bold, messy script.  
An invitation to one of Danny's events. That meant a welcome distraction. And lots of free drinks.  
He opened the letter.

**BackStage.**

the card said

**The Reverse Side of London Theatres in portraits by Lisa Corman.**

Now that was a name Withnail knew all too well. The relationship between him and Marwood's ex-wife could be euphemistically described as 'reserved'. He'd always tried to like her, she'd always tried not to hate him. Both were doing it for Peter's sake and both were failing miserably at their respective efforts.  
Free drinks were one thing. But the very likely possibility of running into Lisa was another.  
As he was pondering the dilemma, the phone started ringing. The sound cut through the thick, festering silence of the flat and made Withnail cringe. He let it ring – until, eventually, it stopped. And Peter's voice came in through the answering machine. “um...No idea why you're not picking up, Withnail, but I really hope you didn't do anything stupid. I... I just wanted to apologize. I behaved like an idiot and I'm sorry. And as to what you said... You know I'm not the type to favour extremes but if it absolutely has to be either all of you or nothing, I'd much rath...”  
Withnail picked up. “Peter?”  
A brief pause before he finished the sentence: “I'd much rather have the former.”  
“I'm happy to hear that,” Withnail purred into the receiver. “Are you feeling any better?”  
“Not really. But I think I'm getting used to feeling like shit,” was Peter's somewhat bitter reply.  
“Well, you'd better be a good patient and pull yourself together,” Withnail said with all the assertiveness of one who'd just reached a decision, “because I've received an invitation to a private view for next Friday and I'd love you to be my plus one.”  
Long silence. Of course there was. Peter didn't enjoy those kinds of events. Was notorious for it.  
_Please, don't say no, Peter..._  
But he owed Withnail this one.  
“Alright then...” He gave in. “I was told yesterday that I should see people more so I just as well might. May as well say hello to a few old friends.”

 


	8. Moon Goddesses I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"...and to the mountains drive disease and care."**  
>  \- from _Orphic Hymn 36 to Artemis_

It didn't take Dr. Lee and Mr Marwood long before they started calling each other 'Ginny' and 'Peter'. They clicked on like only a couple of fellow bookworms can and when it came to books, they could finish each other's sentences. She made him smile, he made her laugh.  
Maintaining the appropriate distance became too much of a nuisance.  
Mr Withnail, who accompanied Peter to most regular sessions and check-ups, was something for her to figure out – and in doing so, she realized she was pretty much figuring out Marwood himself. It didn't take long before she started to think of them as a unit. Withnail was always there - even when he wasn't physically present.

“Why do you always call him by his surname?” Ginny asked during one session while sifting through a pile of papers on her desk. She didn't have to specify who she was asking about.  
“It's how I knew him when we first met; for a long time I didn't even know what his Christian name was. He kind of hates it,” Peter replied. “I had to get him drunk and make him lose a bet to wring it out of him. I teased him about it quite mercilessly for months afterwards.” There was a trace of guilt in his voice as he said that.  
“I was curious, you know. You two seem – close. He's even written into every book,” she observed. “Ashe in _Steamstress_. Crow Bailey in _Sinchtonic_. The Angel in _The Waiting Room_... Had a bit of a trouble locating him in the _Storm in a Teacup_ – but he's the Lost One, isn't he?”  
Peter smiled. “What makes you think so?”  
“Wait a moment,” she replied and took the book off the bookshelf where it was sitting next to a bunch of medical dictionaries and journals. “It's this passage:  
_'Those eyes haunted the threshold of His sleep, burning fires glazed over with perpetual frost, blue like the realization over a glass of cheap booze in the chill of the small hours that you were going to die alone. Twin dying lights staring at Him out of every photo in the file.'_  
And this one...”  
She flipped through a few dozen pages.  
“Here it is.  
_'From small encounters with witnesses and acquaintances, from personal items, from photos and video recordings, from a few voice messages trapped in the etherweb, He'd pieced him together. A 5D projection of a man now lost. Half degree of separation between the two of them, thin and twisting like a wisp of smoke, forever impenetrable, for He was now and the other was then._  
_And a projection can’t feel anything back, not even a 5D one._  
_Or can it?_  
_..._  
_Just how alone are we really – in the midst of a crowd, in the circle of friends, at family gatherings, in the conjugal bed…'_ ”

She looked at him expectantly – and then bit her lip in a sudden realization she'd gone too far and said too much. But he didn't seem to take offence. “It makes sense, actually. Now that I think of it...” He smiled and shook his head in some private amusement. “How very fitting...”  
“What?” She asked, a bit baffled by his response.  
“It's not like I've ever sat down and decided to write Withnail.” He paused for a moment. “But you're not entirely wrong in your conclusions. You're more correct in your conclusions than I've been in my premises.” He laughed nervously. “Well... Of course he's there, somewhere, in each of them. It only makes sense, I wrote them...”  
He left it at that and started scrutinizing his hands and fingernails – while she was trying to read his face.  
She'd hit a nerve. That much was apparent.

 


	9. Old friends and old flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marwood reconnects with the past (a bit)...

 

Marwood was not very fond of parties, vernissages, or anything of that sort, especially if it involved more than a decent amount of snobbery.

Even as he and Withnail walked through the main entrance he started asking himself what on Earth he was doing there. There was too much light, the kind of cold, sterile light that reminded him of hospitals and offices. The art centre was pretty crowded, too – and all the rambling and droning was made oddly fragmented by the place's unpleasant acoustic. It made everything sound as if you were dizzy or drunk.  
He was beginning to feel unwell and very much out of place, lost and utterly ridiculous in his three piece suit, which had somehow got two sizes too big since he'd last worn it.  
Many of the people present were familiar – it had been the same old crowd for years. Lots of the faces connected in his mind with his hash & acid days in the late 70s but he couldn't recall any names and didn't really care to.  
He wanted to go home.  
A brief, reassuring rub between his shoulder blades and Withnail's low whisper helped anchor him a bit: “If you really can't stand being here, I'll get you a taxi.”  
“No, it's fine,” Marwood said resignedly. “I'm already here, so I'd better turn on the charm and have some fun.”  
“That's the spirit,” said Withnail and grabbed a glass of champagne. He raised it and winked at Marwood: “Chin chin...”  
“Yeah, chin chin, alright...” Marwood said with a smile. “I'll go check out the pictures. See you around.”   
  
And they assumed their usual roles – Withnail the toxic charmer and Marwood the silent observer.

The portraits were lovely, if disturbing. Lisa always found that speck of darkness in one's eyes and made it pop. It made people delightfully jittery when they saw themselves in her pictures. These new ones were more ambient, less contrasted and somewhat more daring in terms of colour schemes than was usual for her and Marwood loved it. But then, he had always had a soft spot for Lisa's work.  
It was while he was studying one of the pictures when he overheard Danny's voice. He turned in that direction and spotted Danny standing at the back of the main exhibition room, surrounded by a bunch of people and talking his head off. Danny the successful art dealer, Danny the top talent scout. No matter the decade, “the headhunter” was one of those people who always sensed that a wave was coming and he was among the first to ride it. No wonder he did so well at art trade, being the expert surfer he was – though Marwood still considered it a small miracle that he'd managed to pull himself together enough to be able to monetize on his talents.  
He figured he should probably go and say hello, as they hadn't seen each other for a couple of years.

Danny didn't see Marwood at first. He was too absorbed in the conversation – naturally, since he did all the talking. But as Marwood was quietly observing, a glass of soda in hand, he finally got noticed.

“Pete! It's been ages!” Danny's somewhat loud outburst, amplified by the room's fiendish acoustic, made Marwood cringe, not the least because it drew a lot of attention to him. Some people recognized him. One of them made a stupid joke about that low-budget sci-fi flick from '75 Marwood had been in – something Marwood had very low tolerance for. A woman called Rachel, whom he used to sort of date in the summer or 1978 (or was that 79?) observed he “hadn't aged a day” – which made him wonder whether she was being kind, stoned, or sarcastic. More things were said and more comments made and Marwood suddenly found himself right in the middle of dull, irritating smalltalk.

Once again he had to wonder what on Earth he was doing here; he was quickly progressing from slightly uncomfortable to very annoyed – and visibly so. Danny put his arm around Marwood's shoulders and announced to the company: “Well, if you'll excuse us, we need to discuss some urgent matter.” And he led Peter away to a relatively secluded spot.  
His initiative was met with a suspicious frown. “What kind of urgent matters can the two of us possibly have to discuss, Danny...?”  
“Pardon me if I presume too much but you seemed rather desperate to get away. I could just tell by the look on your face you were about to say _something_ and offend a bunch of people.”  
Marwood nodded and downed the soda before replying: “Well, in that case, thank you very much, your impression was 100% correct.”  
“So...” Danny said with a slight smile. “How many invitations did you get?”  
“Dunno... Dozens? Can't remember,” Peter admitted. “And I'm quite grateful you stopped sending them, I was beginning to feel really bad about never showing up.”  
“And why didn't you?” Danny inquired, frowning. “I've always been under the impression that fine arts, free booze and smooth jazz were right up your alley.”  
Marwood made an apologetic grimace. “I'm afraid I don't particularly like the social aspect of it.”  
Danny smirked. “So I've just seen. Yes, it can indeed be a bit daunting at times." He sighed and there was more than just a hint of reproach in his voice when he said: "That's why I wouldn't mind having some friends around.”  
“Were we ever friends, Danny...” Marwood mused aloud.  
Danny pondered it for a while. “That entirely depends on how you define the term. But, given the types you associate with, I thought maybe _your_ definition might be generous enough for me to fit in...”  
Marwood chuckled – and ended up coughing. The fit was brief but violent and he made a mental note not to be so bloody cheerful. “You know what?” He said: “I think you're right. I'd drink to it but I'm afraid I can't.” He looked around. “Where do they serve coffee in this place?”

Two espressos and a cup of tea later, in the middle of an enthusiastic conversation (or monologue, rather) about the recent development in the Eastern Bloc, Hungarian hard rock and Czechoslovak new wave cinema, Marwood suddenly stopped mid-sentence. “Danny... You're staring. It's not very pleasant.”  
Danny took a sip of champagne. “I see you're sporting a new look, man.” Suddenly he sounded very much like the Danny of old – the shift seemed as effortless on his part as slipping on a glove. “This...” He looked Marwood up and down. “...consumptive Victorian poet look. It doesn't quite agree with you. You look like Jesus motherfukcing Christ on Good Friday morning.”  
Marwood sighed. “Really, Danny? Aren't people supposed to tiptoe around this kind of shit?” He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Let's say I've been better - and keep it at that. How about we get back to the previous topic...”  
Danny remained silent much longer than was comfortable, as if not quite sure he wanted to drop the topic quite so fast – but then he decided not to push it. “Eastern European playwrights. Or politics. Sorry, I tend to confuse one Eastern European thing with another, it's all vodka, bizarre movies and dead communists in mausoleums to me...”  
Marwood poked him in the ribs. “Then you should've shut me up twenty minutes ago!”  
Danny smiled and shrugged. “I would have but the lady seemed interested...”  
“What?”  
“I'd better leave the two of you alone,” Danny said with a mysterious smile, winked and walked away.

“Look at you...” A melodic alto intoned right behind Marwood. He turned around - and was flashed with a smile that could only be described as radiant. Everything about Lisa Corman was radiant.  
“Dear... Which one of your bad habits has caught up with you at last?” She asked, sounding quite genuinely worried.  
Marwood grabbed a glass of wine, all his previous resolve to avoid booze gone in an instant. That he'd expected to run into Lisa didn't make actual running into her any easier. Getting questioned by Danny was bad enough, but having to explain himself to _her_ , that was something he felt completely unprepared for. Every time he had to tell someone, it drained a bit of life out of him – especially if that someone in any way mattered. Which, in her very special and idiosyncratic manner, Lisa did. “Seriously, what's wrong with you people and your impertinent questions? I should have stayed at home after all...” He said, fidgeting nervously. He downed the wine and immediately got another glass. “Well... Who would've thought it's true what they write on cigarette packs...” He forced a nonchalant smile and took another gulp. “Pleased to see that none of your bad habits has left its mark on you. How do you do it, do you bathe in the blood of virgins?”  
There was a breath of cold in his seemingly jovial tone and it didn't escape her. She smiled, gently touched his arm and offered a truce: “I see. Back to Forman, then, what do you say?”  
Obviously relieved, he asked: “So... What did you think of 'Valmont'?”

...

As was their usual way at similar opportunities, Withnail and Marwood spent most of the event each on their own, pursuing their own idea of fun.  
Withnail was having a reasonably good time. He imbibed with remarkable and uncharacteristic degree of moderation, especially after he'd noticed that Peter was showing no such inhibitions. Lisa was with Peter whenever he caught the sight of him. At one point her gaze met his across the room. She didn't roll her eyes and look away as she would have normally done. Something genuine passed between them, a moment of perfect mutual understanding, the laying down of arms. He raised his glass and nodded in greeting, she almost smiled – and then they went back to ignoring each other, as they were used to.  
Peter either didn't notice – or pretended not to.

 


	10. Of things not said (and Roads not taken)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make ourselves a place apart  
> Behind light words that tease and flout,  
> But oh, the agitated heart  
> Till someone find us really out.  
> ...
> 
> \- Robert Frost: _Revelation_

The whole situation was highly unusual. Withnail, not quite sober but still far from entirely wrecked, supporting his charmingly inebriated friend's somewhat wobbly weight and explaining to him why it would be a terrible idea to go to a bar and drink a few more scotches.

The trouble with Marwood was that even when he was so arseholed he could barely stand upright, his capacity for speech remained more or less unimpaired. And now he'd gotten into one of those unpredictable moods and into the kind of random rambling that often beset him when the small hours caught him drunk. The cab ride was a nightmare because he wouldn't shut up and none of the things he said made any sort of sense.  
By the time the cab finally stopped in front of Withnail's door, Marwood sobered up a bit but he was nowhere near sober enough. "So, where do we go next? I fancy a bottle of wine," he said.

"You've drunk enough and the only place you're going now is home. I'll pay for the ride," Withnail replied in the most resolute tone he was capable of – but to his dismay, Marwood shook his head and got out of the cab. He circled the back of the car (bumping into both brake lights on the way) and opened the door on Withnail's side. "It's too late and my typewriter is a terrible company when she's cross with me, as she will be, like the good, stereotypical wife she is...“ He grinned right in Withnail's disapproving face. "I say we go to your place and drink some cognac. I'm getting sober, Withnail, I don't wanna get sober, it's only two in the morning!"

"No you're not," Withnail replied. "You're pissed as a fart."

"Since when do you find any issue with that?"

Withnail got out and began the search for his wallet. "You shouldn't be drinking at all," he insisted while trying to distribute his concentration and energy between the twin tasks of digging out the change to pay the cab driver and keeping an eye on Marwood – who apparently had little patience for the whole process and produced a bank note out of his pocket, sticking it under the annoyed cabbie's nose. It was way more than the fare was worth. "Buy something pretty..." He said and then he suddenly hung down on Withnail's shoulder with all his weight, throwing him off balance and almost making them both fall. "Withnail, I want a pink umbrella... A fucking pink umbrella with yellow polka dots."

"That would be hideous, sunshine," Withnail remarked, while the cab drove away, the driver muttering something about stupid drunk faggots under his breath.

"Not at all! Pink and yellow go really well together. Like wafles and ice-cream!" And he giggled like a schoolgirl. "Anyway, as to what I should and shouldn't be doing, y'know, I shouldn't be doing an awful lot of things I do. I shouldn't have done an awful lot of shit I've done. It's too fucking late for shouldnns, or for worrying about shouldnnavedunns..." He sneezed and, finding that he'd lost his hankerchief, wiped his nose on the corner of his woollen scarf. "Don't you just love English tenses, Withnail? Imagine there are languages out there that only have to make do with three! Or not even that! How in the Hell do those poor sods know **when** they're talking about?" Halfway through the sentence his tone somehow shifted from frivollous to genuinely concerned. "But then maybe that's why classical Chinese poetry is so timeless..."

Withnail didn't comment, he was too busy searching his pockets for the keys.

Marwood rambled on: “Just think about the subtle difference between 'I'll die by next Christmas' and 'I will have died by next Christmas'. The former's focus is me, the latter's – you."

Withnail dropped the keys he'd just taken out of his inner pocket. Wordlessly, he picked them up and started to look for the one that would unlock the main door.

"You do realize I'm dying, don't you? I mean... We all are, right? But some of us more so," Marwood said and he quietly observed Withnail, who was struggling with the key and the lock and blinking away some sudden irritant in his eyes. Then the lock yielded at last and they entered the darkened hallway. Marwood put his arm around Withnail's shoulders. "Don't be a crybaby, Withnail. There are millions of potential friends in London alone. Just stop being such a cunt to people..."

Withnail shook Marwood's arm off and hollered: "Shut up, will you?! Just... Shut your fucking mouth and keep it shut for Christ's sake!"

"What I meant to arrive at," Marwood continued, completely ignoring Withnail's outburst, "is that I've got too little time left to worry about shouldnnatalls."

Exasperated to the verge of tears, Withnail proceeded to the living room door.

"See? Upsetting you, another thing I shouldn't be doing but I can't fucking help it..." A new note crept into Marwood's voice. An earnest, desperate one. Withnail turned around – barely able to see Peter's face in the dim light of the street lamps coming through the glass panes above the door. "I just...can't," came a much quieter reiteration. "You know, sometimes I really find myself wishing you tired of me, Withnail," he said. "And then I always realize just how grateful I am you haven't."

"You really must be off your face to talk such bollocks," Withnail mumbled.

"Well, obviously I _am_ drunk..." Marwood admitted. "But I mean every word. I mean..." He paused, as if looking for words – or courage to say them. "How many years has this been going on, Withnail? The two of us dancing around each other... I waltz, you tango, it's..." He made a small, frustrated sound, something between a whimper and a groan. An ellipsis of sorts.

Withnail stared at him for a brief, helpless moment, looking like a child who's just been given something way too complex and overwhelming to play with. And he must have looked quite monumentally lost indeed, because Marwood suddenly grabbed his scarf and pulled him into a hug. It was very out of character for him, but then - they'd both been rather out of character the whole evening. Withnail gratefully engulfed Marwood in his embrace and held onto him as if to shield him from Death itself. He could feel Peter's eyelashes brush against his ear and his hot breath tickle his neck - and he shivered a bit, suddenly grateful for all those layers of fabric between them.

"This feels so good..." Peter mumbled into the folds of Withnail's cashmere scarf. Then he chuckled and muttered: "We're like a fucking Robert Frost poem. You're the Neither and I'm the Nor..."

It actually made sense to Withnail, which honestly frightened him. "Oh shut up already, sunshine, will you?" He said, not without irritation.

"Why do you keep calling me that?"

" _Please_ stop talking," Withnail half growled half whispered into Marwood's hair before placing a kiss there.

For a precious sliver of forever they stood like that, wrapped in each other's arms and warmth and each in their own silence, pondering that wall between them, thin as a papercut but solid as rock.

"Can I drink all your brandy and fall asleep on your couch?" Marwood murmured after a long, long while, in a voice half-lost, half-wandering and all broken: "Please."

Withnail's 'no' to the brandy was adamant (partly because he'd run out the day before) – but in the end, all that Marwood really needed (or wanted) was that couch. He started drifting off the moment he lay down, perfectly content to just fall asleep in his suit and covered with his coat. Withnail, having ample experience with passing out on that couch only to wake up in the middle of the night with cold feet, cold nose and chattering teeth, brought a blanket and rather unceremoniously threw it over Marwood. Marwood's eyes blinked open.

“I should get you a pillow," Withnail said, while smoothing the blanket over his friend's shoulders.  
“I'm fine," Marwood mumbled. He looked at Withnail from underneath closing eyelids, eyes heavy with booze and regrets. “Finer than I've been in days. Don't fret.”

And he was asleep in an instant, out like a light.

Withnail stood there for minutes, watching him.  
...

" _How many years has this been going on, Withnail? The two of us dancing around each other... I waltz, you tango, it's..."  
…_

 _Pathetic_ , Withnail thought. _The word you were looking for is 'pathetic'._  


…

When Withnail woke up, the tired mid-February daylight was creeping through the window into his bedroom. He had no idea what the time was. Could have been morning, could have been late afternoon. The blanket he'd given to Marwood the previous night was draped up to his chin.  
He sat up, slowly and stiffly, blinking the sleep away.

Silence was seeping out of the walls of the flat, oozing over every surface like pus.  
“You here?” Withnail called. The silence soaked the words up and returned no answer. He got off the bed and padded to the living room. The couch was perfectly neat and empty, showing no signs that it had been slept on.  
A small piece of paper was lying on the coffee table.

_Had to go, didn't have the heart to wake you up. Sorry for being a nuisance. Thanks for everything.  
Made some tea, hope it's still warm when you wake up. _

Reading that note just somehow made the flat feel even emptier and colder.  
The tea was cold, too. Withnail drank it anyway.  
He found very little pleasure or consolation in it.

 


	11. Moon Goddesses II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **"...and great is the beauty that ariseth from her shining light."**  
>  \- from _Homeric Hymn 32 to Selene_

Lisa Corman had always had the charming habit of showing up when least expected but most needed.

A long time ago, he used to believe he loved her – the gorgeous, warm creature that she was, of deep golds and rich browns. He knew now that he hadn't. Not quite as much or as well as she'd deserved. He probably loved her more and better now - years after he'd signed the divorce papers.  
It was a strange, complicated history they'd had; they were clearly not quite meant for one another, but they weren't really able to get over each other either.   


  
He hadn't seen her for months when he ran into her at that vernissage. He was delighted to see her and they got drunk while debating everything from theatre to fast food. She mentioned she was about to spend some time with her relatives in Italy. He thought that that was it and he didn't really expect to ever see her again.  
But now, only several weeks later, she was waiting for him at the bookshop door when he came back from a round of grocery shopping.  
He nodded in greeting and she smiled and nodded back. He unlocked the door and let her in.  
“I've found myself falling for you all over again recently,” she said by way of 'hello'.  
He sniggered, as he locked the door behind them. “Yeah, right... Why are you here, really? And how was Italy?”  
“I want your portrait,” she said, ignoring the second question. “Series of portraits.”  
“You're being morbid, Lisa.” A distinct cold overtone crept into his voice.  
“Wrong tense, love, that should have been present simple.”  
He couldn't help but chuckle at that.  
“What do you say, then?” She asked as they both walked upstairs.  
“That I'm not sure if I like how much this situation turns you on,” he remarked – and immediately regretted it.  
The clicking of her heels on the steps ceased. It made Marwood stop and turn back.  
She didn't seem amused at all. “You really think I care so little, Peter?” She ran ahead of him, to gain the higher ground. “When exactly was I going to find out? From a newspaper obituary – IF you make it to the papers at all, that is? Does your mother know? Or your sister? Or have you cut yourself off so completely from everyone who's ever given a single fuck about you, except that foppish idiot Withnail?”  
He didn't want to answer that, so he remained silent as he slowly walked past her. She caught up, jerking one of the shopping bags out of his hand. “Let me,” she growled. But her anger was already dissipating. “Italy was gloomy as fuck because I spent my time there thinking of you,” she mumbled as she passed him on the way up.  
“Sorry if I'm a bit edgy, I got a more or less definitive expiry date yesterday,” his voice made her stop in her tracks. “They hoped to shrink that thing a bit but the fucker has somehow managed to grow. And spread. I'm officially stage four.” He tried to sound composed and calm about it and he may have fooled most people, but he wasn't fooling Lisa. “So now they're drafting a new battle plan but I can probably count myself very lucky if I get one more Christmas.”  
She turned around and descended those few steps. She gently rubbed his arm. “Well, that calls for a cup of hot beverage,” she attempted a smile but didn't dare to attempt an eye contact. Her voice quavered a bit. “I remember quite distinctly that in your universe, a cuppa fixes everything...”  
He smiled, grateful for that little silly attempt to cheer them both up. “How about tea?” He said.

…

She made him some tea. She cried on his shoulder a little. They were silent together for a couple of hours, as he scribbled something into his notebook and she walked around the flat, flipping through books, peeking into his story drafts and making doodles into her little sketchbook.  
When he stopped scribbling and went to bed, she followed.  
She could tell by his eagerness and his greedy kisses that he'd been hungry for something – or someone – even if not necessarily for her.

She was the first one to wake up in the morning.  
It always used to be the other way round - it used to be him who got up early and made breakfast and coffee and teased her mercilessly about being a slug and a sleepyhead.  
She traced her fingers down Peter's spine, from the nape of his neck all the way down to the small of his back. The salty aroma of the previous night still lingered about and stuck to his skin. He stirred in his sleep and rolled onto his back, but didn't wake up.

Mornings like this were her one small victory over Withnail. She could have Peter Marwood when she wanted; she could wake up to the feel and the scent of his naked skin.  
Vivian Withnail could not.  
Yet Peter would never look at _her_ the way he looked at _him_.  
There was a sharp divide in his mind between Urania and Pandemos.  
  
He was a broken thing.  
He had learned to recoil in fear and disgust from that part of him he should have embraced and he had never managed to unlearn it. 

Lisa had never got a full account of his rather brutal Catholic upbringing, but she had witnessed enough of his nightmares and dealt with enough of his paranoid spells to get the general idea. When you get shamed and beaten over something often and long enough, there comes that one time too many when you either snap and rage against it - or crumble and surrender. And Pete was not the kind of person who'd snap and rage.  
He'd spent all of his life trying to pick up the scattered broken pieces while raising a wall of defences. He had little luck with the former but succeeded all too well with the latter. Sometimes she felt that wall was the only thing that held him together.  
She snuggled up to him, in a mixed impulse to both protect and possess, draping her arm over his stomach.  
_God, he'd become skinny..._

“There's a lot more grey in your hair...” He murmured, making her start a bit, and his hand sneaked up her arm and carressed her neck. “I like it.”  
"Got tired of dyeing it." She looked up at him. “Peter?”  
“Hmm...”  
“I wanted them for myself.”  
“What?” He yawned.  
“The portraits. It's not for any gallery or for my portfolio. I wanted them for _myself_ ,” she said. "Just so that you know."  
“You mean I'll have to sit still for hours," he replied, "and no one will even get to see those bloody pictures in the end?"  
"So you agree?" She beamed him with a happy grin.   
"Hmm..." He mumbled. "I would have in any case." He closed his eyes again. "Just so that you know." And he fell asleep.  
Smiling to herself, she slipped out of the bed and went to make breakfast and coffee.  
 

 


	12. Across the sea of glass...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll walk to my stone hut in the pines to watch the moon at dawn.  
>  _Secure the boat, secure the boat!_  
>  But where is that leafy path hidden in these deserted hills?  
>  _Chigukch'ong, chigukch'ong, ŏsawa!_  
>  A snowy cloud chases me,  
> and this hermit cape weighs me down.
> 
> \- Yun Sondo: _The Fisherman's Calendar_

**SPRING**

**#1**

“Are you sure about this?” She asked as she was laying out her tools. “I won't blame you if you change your mind.”  
“No, it's fine,” he said. “I'm sure.”  
He fidgeted under Lisa's gaze – she always spent a long time looking before she even picked up the pencil – but he endured it. When she finally started to work on the basic outlines, he visibly relaxed.  
“Could you turn your head a little? I'd like to get your profile...” She said from behind her A3 sketchpad. “Look out of the window.”  
Outside the window there just happened to be early Spring on display, so he was more than happy to oblige. He observed the clouds rushing across the pale blue sky and listened to the scraping of her charcoal on the paper. After a while he lost any sense of time.  
  
“You've been awfully silent today. What happened?” She suddenly asked, making him jump a bit. She'd apparently just begun to put finishing touches to the portrait. Marwood glanced at the clock. It had been a little over two hours.  
“You know I used to teach that writing course at RADA, don't you?”  
“Uh-huh...”  
“I resigned at the end of the year. I told them I was ill and that they should find some replacement, which they did... Didn't have to go into specifics, so I didn't...” He said. “I didn't even say a proper goodbye to the kids because they'd ask questions and stuff, you know me...”  
“Yeah,” she mumbled, not without irony.  
“Yesterday they ganged up and paid me a visit.”  
“Really?”  
“Yes,” he nodded, a strange mixture of feelings in his eyes. “They brought a gigantic bunch of flowers. It contained a lot of roses and several well concealed packs of weed. Bless their hearts...”  
She laughed. “Can I have some of that?”  
“By all means, have all of it,” he replied. “You know it makes me paranoid as fuck. It's in one of the jars in the kitchen cabinet.”  
“Why now?” She asked. “You haven't been teaching them for three months.”  
He shrugged. “Word gets about, they must have heard something.”  
“Strange,” she mused. “You sound ...unhappy... about the visit.”  
“You know how it is,“ he said, “they've probably heard somewhere I was 'battling it' and they came here to find a bloke who looks like he's losing it - and you could just read their thoughts on their faces.” He yawned. “I'm grateful and touched and I love those buggers but it was awkward.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned again and sighed. “Damn, I shouldn't be complaining like that. It was sweet of them to drop by.”  
“I see you're getting tired,” Lisa observed.  
“I am. Any chance of you finishing soon? I need a nap,” he said and yawned again.  
She put down the charcoal. “Finished! Want to have a look?”  
He nodded and reached for the sketchpad. She handed it to him and looked expectantly at his face.  
“It looks haunted,” he said, his face expression a perfect reflection of the picture.  
“ _You_ look haunted, love,” she pointed out.

  
**...of April showers**

“Maybe a haircut _is_ beyond the limit of my abilities after all,” Withnail admitted as he critically reviewed Marwood's new hairstyle. It looked like a patchwork rug after a violent encounter with a lawnmower. “I'm sorry, this was a terrible mistake...”  
“Don't worry Withnail, it's going to fall out, anyway,” Marwood attempted to console him while trying not to laugh. “And it's not like there was much of it left.”  
Truth was the previous chemo had thinned out Marwood's hair to the point where it began to look absolutely ridiculous at its usual length – and Ginny had assured him he'd probably lose the rest under the new treatment.  
“I'll bring a clipper tomorrow and fix it,” Withnail said. “I'm not going to allow you the pleasure of walking around with that roadkill on your head and telling everybody who asks that I am responsible.” He ruffled Peter's hair in a desperate attempt to make it look a bit more natural. “Until tomorrow you're grounded.”  
“Shame,” Peter replied, looking wistfully out of the window. “I was fancying a walk.. It's a lovely day outside.”  
It had just begun to rain, a light sun-gilded shower falling softly from the patchy, changeable sky. It was indeed a lovely day and it occurred to Withnail they didn't have a lot of those left. He sighed. “OK, how about this... We'll go straight to the nearest barbershop, get that disaster fixed and then we'll take a walk.” Then he quickly added: “But you'll dress up warm, I don't want you to catch a cold.”  
Marwood smiled. “OK, deal.”  
As Peter went to change, Withnail picked up a few locks of hair from the floor and put them into his cigarette box.

  
**SUMMER**

**...and the dying of light**

“When I was little, I used to hate late August,” he observed, while looking out of the window. “The light felt eerie, the horizons finite and there was this sense of impending doom spoiling every bit of fun.”  
“You hated school that much?” Ginny asked.  
“With a passion,” he turned from the window and looked at her inquiringly. “OK, out with it... Your face has 'bad news' written all over it.”  
“The chemo doesn't work.” She joined him by the window. “Your cancer has...progressed. We've found new metastases in your spine and brain.” She took a deep breath. “We are considering radiation therapy and...”  
“No, Ginny,” he interrupted. “I think, I've had about enough.”  
She blinked. “But...”  
“I'm ready to admit defeat,” he said. “This battle doesn't really make any sense anymore, it's a fucking wasteland we're trying to conquer. Breathing for breathing's sake.”  
Ginny sighed. “I'm not quite ready to give up on you.”  
“I'm both deeply touched and very sorry to hear that. Because you're going to have to,” he said.

 **#19  
** “I must confess, dear, these portraits are beginning to depress even myself,” Lisa said as she overviewed the finished drawing – and the eighteen preceding ones.  
“We can stop if you want,” he said. “If you want to come over, just come over, it's not like you need an excuse...”  
“I want to continue, Peter, it's just...” She heaved a deep sigh and closed the sketchpad. “You keep that cool, nonchalant air about you, but I look into your eyes, week after week... And they tell a different story." She paused and reached out to gently touch his hand. "You've worn masks all your life. I think... I think it's high time you put them away. You don't owe anyone anything else – but you _do_ owe a few people that. Yourself, most notably.”  
He tensed at the words and frowned. "Spare me the lecture, please.”   
“I poked a sore spot, I see.” There was a barely concealed trace of anger in her voice. She got up and grabbed her scarf and sunglasses. “You know what? There are only so many secrets and regrets one should be allowed to take into the grave.” With that, she left.  
Marwood listened to the fading of her footsteps down the stairs – then the slamming of the shop door and jingling of the bell.  
His nose started to bleed. “Cue melancholic piano music...” He mumbled bitterly to himself as he reached for the tissue box.  
  
**  
****...an end to every Summer**  
“You shouldn't be living alone. Move over to my place. It's closer to the hospital and there's a spare bedroom, so you'll have all the peace and quiet you need, if that's what you're worried about.”  
Withnail had brought it up so many times Marwood finally ran out of ways to say 'no'.

...  
Withnail looked expectantly at Marwood, who had just walked in. "So... What do you think?" He'd done everything to make Marwood feel at home. He had his desk and typewriter moved in, together with a selection of his favourite books. And the gramophone and the vinyls, of course. Even the potted plants.  
“I love it...” Peter quite genuinely smiled at him.   
“Haven't I told you?” Withnail lit up with self-satisfaction. “Now, the important thing...” He opened the drawer of the bedside table. There was a phone in there. “It's ugly and it doesn't match anything in this room, so I thought I'd tuck it out of sight. But it's perfectly functional. And here...” He took a little phonebook out of his pocket and gave it to Marwood. “All the important numbers. The studio and the head of the production team, the theatre, my agent, the hospital, Ginny, Jay...Lisa. Anyone you might need or want to call in case something happens while I'm away.” Then he pointed to the desk. “That phone is working, too. It's a retro piece and it goes well with your typewriter, so I though I'd appoint it to the writing desk.”  
Peter laughed. “How many phones do you think I need?”  
“If I could have one phone for every square meter of this flat, that would be ideal,” Withnail answered. Peter started to chuckle, but ended up coughing.  
“I'll be away a lot of the time,” Withnail said.  
Peter walked over to the armchair and sat down.  
“I hate the idea of leaving you alone.” Withnail half sat half leaned on the roll arm of the armchair, careful not to cause Peter any discomfort. “I still think I should have turned down that costume drama. Maybe I still could back out of it...”  
“Don't you even think about it. You never know when you hit a bad patch again, so be grateful for the work – and if that gig means moving your arse over to Scotland for two weeks, then move your bloody arse over to Scotland for two weeks,” Peter said before assuring him: “And don't worry, I'll be fine.”  
Withnail met his eyes. “You keep saying that,” he said softly. “Stop it. Saying it a thousand times makes it thousand times a lie.”  
“Will _you_ be fine, Withnail?”  
The question caught Withnail by surprise. He broke the eye contact. “What do you mean?”  
“What I say. Will you be fine? In time?" A painfully long pause before Marwood continued. "Because nothing and no one matters to me more than knowing you'll go on.”  
Withnail looked down at him and found himself unable to look away again, because Peter's eyes wouldn't let him.  
“Nothing. And no one,” Peter repeated. His voice quavered to a hoarse whisper. “I'm terribly afraid, Viv. You have no fucking idea how afraid I am. And of all those fears that keep me awake at night – and trust me, there's a whole damn legion of them – the fear you might do something stupid and self-destructive is by far the worst.”  
Withnail realized, not without something of a surprise, that this was the first time in the past year he'd seen tears gleam in Peter's eyes. He quite honestly admitted: “I really don't want to think about it yet.”  
Marwood composed himself a bit and somehow managed a smile. “Well, think back to this conversation when it comes down to it, just promise me that at least.”  
“I think I can promise that much,” Withnail said. He could tell from Peter's body language he was aching all over, so he asked, hoping to change the topic: “Where are your painkillers?”  
Marwood ignored the question completely. “I'm being a narcissistic idiot, aren't I... People go on, of course, that's what people do.” Without even looking at him, he grasped Withnail's hand and held it for a while, carressing the knuckles with his thumb, before letting go. “Or maybe that's what I'm really afraid of. The world going on without me – and you with it. I suppose I'm conventional that way...” His own hand fell into his lap, listless and pale and ill. He rested his head against Withnail's arm. “Don't worry about the painkillers, I can manage without for now.” He sat like that for a while, in complete silence, staring into the void. Then he slowly stood up and took a long, laboured breath. He blinked a few times, found his zen – or whatever it was he channeled whenever he was pretending to be “fine” – and smiled. He was being brave again. “OK... How about some tea and then I'll unpack...”  
Withnail just couldn't leave it at that. If that sudden display of vulnerability a moment ago had left him a bit shaken, it was still nowhere near as heartbreaking as this reassertion of control, this going back to _and-how-have-_ _ **you**_ _-been-all-day_ and _how-about-some-tea_...  
“You have to stop agonizing over something that _almost_ happened over _twenty years_ ago.” He took Marwood's hands, brought them to his lips and kissed them. Half a year ago Marwood would have cringed. Now he accepted the gesture with a fond smile, even if he didn't reciprocate. “No, Peter, I won't be fine. But I'll soldier on." He gulped down the lump that had been forming in his throat for a while now and blinked away a tear or two. "And could we please change the topic now...?”  
Marwood let himself be drawn into an embrace. “I'd hate to have you frozen to death,” he said.  
“You got it all mixed up. I'm the remarkable rocket, remember?”  
Peter laughed, but there was very little mirth in it. “Yeah, right. As if that was in any way reassuring...”

**AUTUMN**

**...coming of October**

“Why don't you come with me, Peter?” Withnail suddenly said, looking up from the script he was studying. “You'd love the place, I'm sure - and I'd feel so much more at ease...”  
“I told you already I don't feel up to the trip. I'm too tired to travel across the whole damn country.” Marwood said, glancing at him from the other end of the sofa. “And you wouldn't even _allow_ me out of the hotel room, anyway.”  
“You know what? Baron Macdonald can go hang with all the other Macdonalds. And MacAulays and MacBrides and all the other bastards,” Withnail said. “I'm staying here.”  
“No,” Peter said resolutely. “You're not.”  
“I'm. Staying.”  
“No. You're not,” Marwood repeated, equally determined. “Look, I'm finer than I've been in weeks and I'm surrounded by a ridiculous number of phones. You can't just drop out halfway through the shooting, not when you're the lead!”  
Withnail took a deep breath, ready to raise an objection, but Marwood glared him into resigned silence. With an exasperated sigh, he resumed reading the script, but he couldn't get into it. After five minutes of trying to concentrate he got fed up and tossed the script on the coffee table.  
“Look, Peter, th...” He froze. Marwood's eyes, keen and searching, were fixed on his face and he just knew. He was being memorized.  
Peter's focused countenance mellowed into a smile. “What? And don't you _dare_  to bring up that _I'm-staying_ nonsense again.”  
“OK... Nothing, then,” Withnail said and began to stare back, studying the play of light in Peter's hair. It had started to grow back recently, a shade redder than it used to be – and though it was a subtle change, barely noticeable except in direct sunlight, Withnail was fascinated with it.  
After a moment, Peter groaned and draped his blanket over his head. “Damn you, Withnail. I give up, you won the staring contest, just stop, please.”  
“Why would I want to stop?” Withnail grabbed the corner of the blanket and pulled it off Marwood's head.  
The look on Marwood's face was priceless. “Seriously. Is this the image you want etched into your brain? I look like a deserter from a Romero flick.” He tugged at the blanket, but Withnail's hold on it was firm.  
“Oh, you're such a vain little bugger...” Withnail smirked. And, on a sudden impulse, he leaned over and gave Marwood a resounding kiss on the cheek. Then he resumed his position, reached for the script and started reading again. The sofa creaked as Marwood's weight shifted. He snuggled up to Withnail and rested his head on his shoulder. He smelled of soap and fresh linen and his hair tickled Withnail's ear.  
Kissing him seemed like the most natural thing in the world, so Withnail did just that.  
Peter tensed at first, all his defences kicking in at once – but then he melted into the warmth of the moment and leaned into the kiss. For a brief spell it was beautiful, very nearly perfect. It didn't last. The instant Withnail got too carried away, Marwood withdrew, as if something had stung him. “Sorry, Viv, I... I can't.” He looked and sounded perfectly miserable.  
Withnail gently stroked Marwood's hair. “You really should stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault.”   
"I'm not so sure they aren't," Marwood mumbled as he nested his head against Withnail's shoulder. 

  
…  
Peter was still sound asleep when Withnail peeked in the room. It was a few minutes past six, the train was leaving in an hour and he was all packed and set to go. He tiptoed over to the bed. For a moment he toyed with the idea of shaking Peter awake to say goodbye - as he'd promised he would - but he couldn't. He didn't want to talk to him, for he absolutely wasn't ready for farewells. They all felt too damn definitive these days.  
So he stood there, for a while - memorizing... Then he put a note on the bedside table and left.   
  
...

Lee was just about to leave for lunch when the phone started ringing. She picked up. “Dr. Lee's office.”  
“Ginny...”  
“Pete? You don't sound good, what's the matter, what's going on?”  
“Can't stand up.” He sounded frightened. “Can't move my bloody legs at all.”  
  
A few hours later he was lying on the hated hospital bed in the hated hospital room, surrounded with the hated hospital smell. The only shred of existence within a hundred-yard radius he _didn't_ hate at the moment was Ginny.  
But he hated every word that was coming out of her mouth.  
“See that?” She pointed at one of his vertebrae on the X-ray. “This one here. A compression fracture. Can happen quite easily when the bone gets too brittle.”  
“Fucking bastard,” he muttered. For a moment he was silent, eyes devoid of expression or focus. “So I'm basically a cripple now, if I understand it correctly...?”   
Ginny put away the X-ray. “You should be able to recover some of the feeling and movement in your legs, but you won't be walking anytime soon, I'm afraid," she said. "Most compression fractures don't cause this kind of trouble, but yours is a pretty bad one. Under more favourable circumstances we'd probably be considering a surgical treatment.”  
Marwood said aloud what he assumed Ginny was thinking: "In other words, I won't be walking again, period." He sighed and his eyes turned to her. “So... When can I return home?”

 

 


	13. ...to the Mountains of Jade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many crows have passed overhead, flying to roost for the night?  
>  _Strike the sail, strike the sail!_  
>  As the way ahead grows darker, evening snowfall dots the sky. 
> 
> \- Yun Sondo: _The Fisherman's Calendar_

“In hospital? What are you doing in a fucking hospital?” The panic in Withnail's voice was quickly translating itself into a dull nervous headache pounding against Marwood's temples.  
Marwood said, as casually as he could: “My back is giving me some trouble, but I'll be back home in a couple of days.”  
“That's your 'I'll be fine' voice, sunshine,” Withnail said, oddly calm all of a sudden. “What is it, really?”  
“OK, my back is giving me _serious_ trouble,” Marwood reluctantly admitted. “But please, don't worry. I'm being downright spoiled here, I promise.”  
“Okay...” Withnail said. “Look, I must get back to the set or that bloody dictator will have me skinned alive, but see you tomorrow.”  
“See you...What? Withnail!”  
But Withnail had already hung up.  
  
The next morning he called again, to apologize. They were moving locations and all the actors and extras had two days off – but he was about to spend them in bed, because he'd come down with “a bastard of a flu”. He was still considering the trip, but Marwood talked him out of it. There was no point for Withnail to travel to London; in his present state the doctors wouldn't let him anywhere near the oncology ward, anyway.  
It was a long call and it would have been much longer were it not for the doctors' rounds.  
“I'll have to finish now,” Marwood said when Ginny poked her head into the room to warn him that a 'whole pack of them were coming'. “Keep warm, Withnail, and drink your tea steaming hot, you hear me?" He said. "And I hope you're not taking your medicine with Scotch...”  
“Look who's lecturing me on how to be a good patient...” Withnail retorted. “I'll take care if you do. See you next Sunday.”  
“Yeah. See you.”  
Marwood couldn't help but feel disappointed.

  
When he awoke from his afternoon nap, a guy was occupying the previously empty bed next to his. A young chap, maybe in his late-twenties. He looked very proper – and very frightened. More frightened whenever he looked at his fellow patient. Marwood didn't blame him. He'd been there and felt the same way. He caught himself wondering what had become of professor Taylor and Joe and Gary... They were probably all dead by now.  
After five minutes of very awkward silence Marwood finally asked: “Name?”  
“David.”  
“Nice to meet you, David,” Marwood said with a polite, if unenthusiastic smile and opened a book. David didn't bother to respond or ask about Marwood's name (so he wasn't _that_ proper, after all), but for whatever reason couldn't keep his eyes off him. At first he just threw sideway glances, but eventually he began to stare.  
“Don't stare at _me_ ,” Marwood said when he noticed. “Look at something pretty.”  
All of a sudden the young bloke lit up like a lantern. “Nick fuckin' Phoenix! Captain Phoenix from 'Flight of the Falcon'! It's you! That twitch of the eyebrow just now. Man, I knew you looked familiar!” He hopped off the bed and rushed over to Marwood; he grasped his hand and started shaking it ferociously before Marwood even knew what was happening. “Captain Nick Phoenix, Nix for short! That's so exciting!” And he gave him a military salute.  
For a few moments Marwood was completely dumbfounded. Then he said, with a slight apologetic smile. “Well... Not exactly a favourite among the things I've done... But...thanks. I guess.”  
“Well... Yeah, it was camp and stupid and cheap – but I loved the flick. Still do, really, though I haven't seen it in ages. So, so very nice to meet you, err...” He went red with embarrassment. “Damn. This is awkward... What _is_ your name?”  
Marwood began to laugh so hard he ended up seized by a brutal coughing fit.  
  
  
**#23  
** Lisa put the pencil down. “Finished...” She showed the latest portrait to Peter. “It's the best one so far.”  
He took a sip of tea. “Let's make it the last one, what do you say...”  
“I see. OK, then..." She reluctantly closed the sketchpad and lay it on the blanket. "Keep them.”  
“Didn't you say you wanted them for yourself?”  
“I wanted to _make_ them,” she said.  
“I see.” He ran his fingers over the cover. There were some of Lisa's finest works in that sketchpad. There was much more of her in them than there had ever been of him. A 23-page long confession. “I... Thank you.”  
He'd be leaving them to her, of course. Perhaps she knew he would.  
“Your doctor said you should be ready to go later in the afternoon,” she said. “Me and Jay have made some adjustments in the flat. Rearranged the furniture and reorganized the shelves a bit. To make your life a tad easier until he gets back. Jay will check up on you in the evening.”  
He smiled and nodded and allowed her to hold his hand.  
“It's frustrating, y'know...” He suddenly said. “The Wall has come down, Ozzy and Mötley Crüe perform gigs in Moscow... This decade's gonna be fucking brilliant.”

  
**...another Robert Frost poem  
** Jay had left about two hours ago. They'd had a quick cuppa and a chat and she'd promised to return the next day. He was glad she hadn't stayed too long. And now he was alone with a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of red.  
Both he and the bottle were half-drunk. **  
**He gulped down some coffee and lit a cigarette. Gitanes. Damn, he'd missed those.  
“Why haven't I got back to it earlier, I wonder...” He mused and he took a deep, indulgent puff. He started coughing almost immediately, but after the third or fourth inhale the cough subsided.  
“Here you go, fucker, that's what you like, isn't it... Though you sure thrived on platinum as well. I certainly didn't.”   
Home at last... And so many things to do.  
He mumbled around the cigarette: "Miles to crawl before I sleep. And the luminary clock ticking the night away... Oh, fuck you, Robert." He grabbed the bottle and took a swig.  
He stubbed the butt of the cigarette out in the ashtray and started compiling a list on a scrap piece of paper.  
  
\- finish the damned epistolary novel  
\- record a message for Withnail  
\- update the Wilde  
\- put aside books and records for Ginny/Lisa/Jay/Withnail  
\- call mom  & sis

He stopped writing and reviewed what he'd written so far. After a few moments of hesitation, he crossed out the last line. He just didn't feel it.  
Marwood family was beyond fixing. Not that he was entirely past caring, but it just wasn't something he felt up to.  
He obliterated that line in a crisscross of angry strokes. Then he took another gulp of red and lit another cigarette.  


 


	14. Moon Goddesses III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **...she of the crossroads.**  
>  **"Hekate ... pleased with dark ghosts that wander through the shade; Perseis, solitary goddess."**  
>  \- _Orphic Hymn to Hecate_  
>   
> 
> \---  
> Rusty cliffs and moss-faced rock fold about like a painted screen.   
>  _Haul in the boat, haul in the boat!_  
>  I will stop here whether or not I have made a fine-scaled catch.   
>  _Chigukch'ong, chigukch'ong, ŏsawa!_  
>  Alone in my boat, I'm content  
> with hermit cape and reed hat. 
> 
> \- Yun Sondo:  _The Fisherman's Calendar_

Jay was sitting by the table and observing Marwood as he was preparing grog. It was taking him some time – any of his attempts at anything were sabotaged by the double inconvenience of a wheelchair and a back brace and he was struggling. He'd been struggling with everything since he'd got released from hospital the day before. She wanted to help, but he wouldn't let her.  
He seemed to be at peace with everything, had an air of acceptance about him. But something felt a bit off and though Jay couldn't quite put her finger on what it was, it was there and it worried her.  
Lisa's sketchpad was lying on the table and Jay begun to browse through it. There were over twenty portraits, all numbered, marking the frightening progress from Marwood of old to the whisper of a man he'd become in recent months.  
“A new one almost every week,” he said when he noticed her looking at them. “They're pretty good, don't you think?”  
“I guess. But they give me the creeps, lovey.” She closed the sketchpad and put it away.  
“Well, that's Lisa for ya...” At last, Marwood put a huge mug of grog in front of her. “Sorry it took so long,” he said.  
“That's alright, sweetie.”  
He began to absentmindedly stir his tea. “I feel ...brittle, Jay. This fucking disease has turned me into a porcelain doll – and not a very pretty one, at that.” He fell silent for a while, seemingly hypnotized by the swirling motion of the tea in the mug. “I'm... hollowed out from within. And so bloody tired.”  
  
They fell quiet and she found herself idly wondering whether he'd managed to get some of barbiturates from one of the many dealers he used to know or whether he was planning to overdose on his morphine. Because Marwood just wasn't the type to slit his wrists or blow his brains out. Someone would have to come and clean that mess up and if Marwood hated anything, he hated being a nuisance.  
It was him who broke the silence. “Penny for your thoughts...?”  
“Half a crown for yours...” She said.  
“My poncy twat of a husband...” He smiled. “He's been on my mind a lot.”  
“And what about him...? If you don't mind telling me.”  
“Just...wondering what he's doing. Hoping he gets enough sleep, doesn't drink too much and isn't a complete cunt to everyone on the set... Missing him, really.” He wrapped his hands around the mug for warmth. There was grief in his eyes, grief for things that had never been, but maybe could have been. “Thinking that he probably doesn't deserve to come back home to god knows how many more days or weeks of...this. And worse.” By 'this' and 'worse' he apparently meant himself. “Anyway, I asked first...”  
“If you really want to know... I get this ugly feeling you're about to do something...' She hesitated. 'Something quite pointless.”  
He let out a weary, dispirited chuckle. “Jay, darling, I've been doing that for about 47 years.”  
The way he said it gripped her by the throat.  
“But I've been more or less enjoying myself, I guess, so it's not like I'm complaining,” he said when he noticed her reaction.  
He was in such an ugly place and so desperate not to let anyone else in there.  
“No need to look at me like that, Jay,” he said, almost pleadingly. He didn't like being seen through - his frown was a testament to that. "I'll..."  
“If you say _'I'll be fine'_ , I'll smack you, I swear!”   
He laughed. “Very well.”  
She wished she hadn't interrupted him like that. Part of her wanted nothing more than to hear him utter that reassuring lie. And it suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he found some comfort in saying it.

When she was leaving a couple of hours later, he gave her a big hug. She wasn't the hugging type, but this time she embraced him back, as tight and as warmly as the chair and the back brace allowed. “Backgammon on Thursday?” He asked and smiled. “I count on it.”  
“Of course.”  
As the door closed behind her she was pretty damn sure they would never speak again.

...  
Jay got to Chelsea around eight on Thursday evening. Her feet felt about 100 pounds each when she was getting out of the car and the air felt thicker than saltwater.  
She rang the doorbel, but she didn't expect any answer. None came. She lifted the door rug and grabbed the spare key.  
Unlocking and opening a door had never been harder in her entire life.  
She passed through the hall into the living room. All was dark and silent, curtains were down. She switched on the light. An envelope with her name was lying on the coffee table.  
A set of instructions. Typed. Neat and orderly. Impersonal.  
She read it, memorized it. Made herself a cup of coffee. Noticed that the dishes had been washed and put away and sink and counter scrubbed spotless clean. Cried into her coffee as she drank it. Then swigged a glass of rum.  
It was about nine when she finally approached the door to Marwood's room and reached for the door knob, noting her knees had turned to jelly. “Peter, I fucking hate you right now,” she mumbled to herself, shaking all over.  
There was no point knocking.  
She took a deep breath, calmed down just a bit – and opened the door.  
  
…  
The director, progressively pissed off, turned to his assistant. Withnail had excused himself and run off to receive a phone call about five minutes ago. This wasn't the best moment for delays. “Where is he? I'd really like to wrap it up for today!”  
The assistant said: “A phone call. Sounded important. Looks like it's bad news.”  
“Oh...” The director mellowed down a bit as Withnail finally approached. “You finished talking, Vivian? Something important?”  
Withnail wordlessly nodded. He had yet to find his voice.  
“Are you okay? Can we continue?”  
Withnail inhaled deeply, his mind searching for something to hold on to. Found a memory, a very recent one.  
  
_“Will you be fine? In time?”_  
_“Think back to this conversation when it comes down to it, just promise me that at least.”_  
  
“No,” he said, eyes and voice clouded over. “I'm not okay. But we can continue.”


	15. Loose ends

Withnail had expected quite a few folks to turn up, but the number of people that attended the service still caught him by surprise.  
Lisa and Jay were there, and Ginny, of course. Even Marwood's mother and sister turned up, their faces displaying equal measures of grief and disbelief, because the bastard hadn't even bothered to tell them he was dying. And Danny and friends showed up, as well as a bunch of RADA kids and even some of the professors. A few people from the film industry, some fellow bookworms from Marwood's book club, a little crowd of his readers and fans... The church was full.

Lisa had somehow persuaded him to give a speech. He improvised. He got all the right responses - flutters of affectionate laughter, tearful smiles and all that, at all the right places. So he must have done it right.  
But later he realized he couldn't remember a single sentence he'd said. It was all a blur. He just remembered standing there at the speaker's desk and feeling hopelessly alone with his grief.  
He didn't have the words for how he felt. Words couldn't quite contain the sudden gaping _absence_.   
  
He left the service early.  
  
...  
Lisa found him on a bench behind the church. He barely noticed her approach.  
“That speech was beautiful, Withnail,” she said as she sat down next to him. "Especially the bit about the drunken Edmund soliloquy. Would have loved to witness _that_."  
“Could you leave me alone?” He muttered.  
“No.” She took a tobacco box out of her handbag, opened it and produced a joint. “I want to bury the hatchet.” She lighted the joint and took a puff before offering it to Withnail.  
He hesitated for a moment, but then he accepted. He inhaled deeply and slowly blew the smoke out. “Whatever possessed him to leave the damned bookshop to _me_... _And_ that hag he used to play scrabble with... I'm still trying to figure out whether to be deeply touched or royally pissed off.” He passed the joint to her. "The dope's shit, but thanks, anyway."  
“Inheriting Jay ain't that bad," she said. "Look at us... We've inherited _you_. Now that's bad.”   
“The sentiment's mutual,” he said, wondering just how much he really meant it.  She mused: “He was so anxious not to leave any loose ends... You think he actually plotted this out like a book? Drew a little scheme in one of his notebooks and wrote us all some sort of happy ending before he stuffed himself with barbiturates and washed it all down with scotch?”  
“He most certainly did. What would I give to have the fucker back, even if only to tell him what I think of his silly matchmaking shenanigans," Withnail replied. "So...” He looked at Lisa and gestured for the joint. “That leaves you and me with...what exactly?”  
Lisa passed the joint to him. “The grief, you idiot.”

 

  
  
...  
  
It took Withnail a few weeks before he even contemplated opening his 'personalized edition' of Wilde's fairy tales and he needed several more days to actually muster enough courage to do it.  
As he flipped the book open, cautiously and apprehensively, the old post-it note fell on the floor. He was just about to pick it up, when it occurred to him it had been removed from the contents page and stuck to another one. Page 25. The paper was still slightly creased.   
_'...“I am glad that you are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince..._  
  
There had been an update since the last time Withnail had turned those pages.  
_“...you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.”_  
The last three words in that sentence were circled in bright crimson ink and a new note was scribbled at the bottom of the page:  
_I believe you're awaited in a happier climate, silly bird, so don't wait until December._  
_Move on._  
_Chin chin._  
  
Withnail went pale as a sheet.  
He flung the book into the corner and yelled at the top of his lungs: "Coward is all you ever were, you fucking bastard!"   
The omnipresent stifling silence swallowed up the outburst and yawned its ugly maw open at him, leaving him even more acutely aware just how alone he was.  
He sighed and went to collect the book and all the scattered envelopes that had been inserted between its pages.   
"You should have told me," he muttered as he gathered the envelopes and inspected the book. He gently, apologetically caressed the creased pages. "You should have waited for me, you fucker, and let me see you off..." His voice choked into a stifled falsetto as his eyes began to burn. "And you should have bloody  _told_ me."  
  
A bottle of red and a pack of cigarettes later, he opened the book again.   
"Me too," he mumbled, a small sad smile playing around the corners of his mouth. He opened another pack of Gauloises and, having run out of wine, poured himself a glass full of Scotch. "Happier climate, God Memnon, gold-fish and red ibises can go fuck themselves, sunshine." 

 

  
  
...

Dear Ginny,  
  
months ago I promised you that I'd let you read that epistolary novel I was working on. Then I gave you the unfinished thing, because I didn't believe I was going to get to the last chapter.

Turns out there was only one more chapter left to write, I just wasn't ready to write it until very recently. I hope you like it. It's not very polished, I'm afraid, but neither were the previous ones. It's been a purely therapeutic project from the beginning, anyway, so it probably doesn't really matter.

Thanks for everything,

Peter.

  
…

_Man thing..._

_You may find this hard to believe, my unfortunate, unwilling and only friend, but I'm almost as tired as you are._

_You barely lived a year ago, entangled in a web of flowery phrases and obscure metaphors that plagued every page of your life; shielded from the eyes and minds and hearts of others and hiding from yourself._  
_You've always performed best under pressure and under a deadline. So I gave you one._  
_And I'm a bit disappointed with you, to be perfectly honest._

 _At least you've faced yourself; seen & felt your whats, hows and whys for what they **really** are. _  
_Other than that, it's been a drearily uneventful year, I must say._  
_You still wear that web of words and silences like a shroud. You hold onto it as if that was all that held you together._  
_It probably is._  
  
_As much as I love you, man thing (of course I do, I am of you, after all) - you're a messy patchwork of unspoken confessions and stale regrets._  
_Maybe there's a ray of sunshine trapped in there, somewhere, waiting and begging for you to let go.  
_

               

 

The man smiled as he rolled a blank sheet of paper into the typewriter, scrolled down to the middle section of the page and began to type

 

 

 

 

 

 **T H E    E N D**  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Many, many thanks to _flowersaretarts_ for the beta.  
>  You've been (and are) a great help, dear, hugs and sherry, chin chin!  
> 2) As for Withnail's name - I actually tried to come up with something else than Vivian or Vyvian - but none of it felt right. I think it's not only due to the film's real-life inspiration but also largely thanks to having read (and enjoyed) _flowersaretarts_ ' W&I fics.  
> 3) If you haven't read it already, read [_The Fisherman's Calendar_](http://thewordshop.tripod.com/Sijo/fishermanscalendar.htm). It's one of the best poems ever written. Seriously.


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